


Cinder Secrets

by hocotate



Series: Chaptered fics [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Amnesia, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Office Sex, Past Infidelity, Romance, Schizophrenia, Smut, Suicidality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10324577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hocotate/pseuds/hocotate
Summary: Yixing—who lives not-so-happily with Luhan—might have accepted his own insanity. That shouldn't prevent him from figuring out just exactly what the deal with this new coworker Sehun is, though.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cross-posted from my AFF.

Yixing has never really seen himself as a cheater or even easy to get. He has always been true to the many principles given by society, has always adapted happily to whatever expectations come with monogamy. Rules are his thing, or so he likes to think - he has played by them since birth, accepted them as something needed in order for everything to work out. Now, don’t misunderstand. It's not that he’s submissive or even orderly by nature - accidentally getting into trouble by failing to follow orders is, in fact, a speciality of his. He’s just righteous (or polite, if one finds dramatic words distasteful), highly aware of that one person’s reckless actions might cause suffering to others no matter how trivial they may seem at first. He has always been faithful, has with the only exception being one overly touchy friend never even touched another man or woman for other reasons than to greet them. Never before has the idea of sleeping with someone else than his boyfriend crossed his mind, but then again, never has he been faced with many temptations either.

  
He loves Luhan. They are happy, somewhat functioning, even if they like all people living devoted to each other have had their rough times, their straining altercations. “Two chipped pieces of a quirky puzzle” was what Luhan liked to say in defence to their relationship back when Yixing was still unaccustomed to dating a previously cheating, mildly insane artist, and “What about the third piece?” was what Yixing used to bitterly respond with. He didn't find out about his boyfriend’s boyfriend until after a few months into their highly spontaneous relationship, but although the slap across the face given by the third - or if fact the first - piece didn't hurt nearly as much as the lies given by Luhan, he still coped with it. He was head over heels for Luhan, after all, and that was all that mattered, he thought. He still thinks.

  
Despite the lies and despite the trauma of having a sobbing stranger storm into Luhan’s apartment one night, trying to drag him out of the bed in which Yixing was crying just as much, the struggling artist and the office slave turned out to be a match made in heaven. Well, in some ways, at least. It’s true that Yixing’s heart still hurts sometimes and that Luhan’s eyes are so often clouded by shame, but that is, in the end, all just a part of trying to fit together pieces of a broken puzzle. Despite the lingering remains of one person’s dishonesty and another person’s undeniable foolishness, a little sticky tape is all they need to fix the cracks. It’s all Yixing’s heart needs, at least, for now.

  
He loves Luhan, he really does. For a little more than three years have they been together now, and God, have they been through much. Infidelity and forgiveness, sudden breakdowns and fast upturns. A destructively drunk Luhan once spending all of their cash savings on forged artwork, and a mentally exhausted Yixing trying to hang himself in the bedroom twice only to both times get "saved" by a water leak in the apartment above. They never really take the time to talk about these ordeals in fear of breaking the comfortable silence which is part of their carefully rehearsed life together, yet they don’t mind. Yixing never complains about Luhan’s tendency to act recklessly, and Luhan never pushes Yixing to stop with his antidepressants, despite his own aversion to drugs other than alcohol and despite the fact that Yixing consumes far too many pills than the doctor orders him to.

  
This is why Yixing loves Luhan, if one does not count his still lingering infatuation with the flirty artist who once pulled him into his lap in a dark corner of some cheap nightclub. He still loves Luhan, because despite the many tribulations that come with being together, together is how they have been through it all, even if they rarely speak of it.

  
He still loves him, he really does.

  
Yet, here he is, three long years later - legs spread out in different directions, coffee-stained slacks tossed to the floor and kicked aside. His coworker’s cock shoved so far up his ass that he won’t be able to sit comfortably for days. Two hands are glued against each side of his body, keeping him in place whilst occasionally massaging whatever area of skin that isn’t ticklish. He keeps moaning for more, with a mouth stuffed with hot, swirling tongue begging to get pressed into even deeper, even rougher into the part of him which has until recently been reserved for Luhan.

  
He doesn’t slip his boyfriend’s name at the feeling of someone else's cock filling him up nicely, because his tongue is busy spilling the two syllables forming another’s. He’s pinned against a broken vending machine, barely registering the noises getting muffled by the carpeted floor, the sound of prickling skin slapping and eager lips smacking. He doesn’t know if anyone is listening but neither is he worried - the 48th floor of Oh Enterprises is usually quite empty at this time of night. That is, after all, why they’re still here.

  
It’s true that Yixing has never explicitly told Luhan that he won't sleep with others, and while such promises are something given in most relationships, he can’t bring himself to stop. Not now. Not when this alien yet familiar tongue feels so good swirling around his exposed nipple, fighting for his attention alongside the rough hands spreading his already red buttcheeks, keeping him in place against the vending machine. He doesn’t know how to stop, and neither is he sure whether he even wants to or not. Luhan did it once - he might even have done it again for all Yixing knows - and while it hurt not only his boyfriend of that time but Yixing as well, the latter doesn’t care to be the better person. Seeing as it is too late to rewind, anyway, he might as well fuck things up a little bit more, to let it all loose and give in to it all, bodily cravings and feelings alike.

  
“I think I love you,” he pants against the neck that isn’t Luhan’s, but even though the dangerous words seem to remain unheard by the one who keeps fucking into his nowadays constantly sore ass, he frowns through the moans and sighs. He knows that this isn't revenge, that the “ _great payback_ ” his best friend keeps nagging him about was never supposed to happen even to begin with. This is no noble attempt at moral justice, no retribution for sins that are since long forgiven. “Revenge” is, however, the only excuse he has got.

  
He doesn’t even know why is here, to be frank, how he ended up anticipating late nights at the office rather than avoiding them. The angle at which he is now shoved into after getting laid down is just too overwhelmingly effective and it gives him a hard time to think, as does the feeling of his tangled hair getting pulled from behind by slender yet strong fingers pressing his face against the newly vacuumed floor. He hasn’t been able to fully backtrack the progress, where it all possibly went wrong with Luhan, leading him to believe that all of this “just happened”, no matter how typically whitewashing it might sound. He doesn’t know what justifiable reason stands behind the loud whine he lets out as he shoots his load onto the floor of his office's break room, nor does he know with whom the fault really lies. All he knows is, for all he remembers clearly, that it started with this new guy.

  
Oh Sehun.

 

 

_many months ago_

 

“Who’s that?” Yixing asks Minseok, his desk neighbour, not really interested but in this moment willing to focus on anything else than the disorganised documents lying scattered on the desk before him, their bleached surface stained with takeaway coffee and exhausted tears from last night. His finger is pointing at a man across the office, young-looking and fair and with a face looking more sculptured than human. He’s quite beautiful, Yixing acknowledges a bit reluctantly although without really caring. Beautiful, yet disturbingly synthetic.

  
“New transfer, arrived just this morning. From 52nd, I heard.”

  
Impressed but not really, Yixing raises two eyebrows and whistles, quietly and sarcastically. “52nd, huh.”

  
The man doesn’t seem to hear it over the sound of the endless scribbling and paper-turning, the typical background music of every office, but then again does his annoyingly stoic expression make him look like every taxidermist’s wet dream. Even if he had by miracle heard it, he probably wouldn’t have cared to move a single muscle.

  
“Yeah, I think he’s related to the CEO somehow. Must have gotten demoted or something, though.”

  
For a short moment wondering what the attractive yet somewhat crude-looking man has done in order to get transferred down to the 48th, which, mind you, is one hell of a shithole compared to “The Floor of Success” that is the 52nd, Yixing nevertheless nods before turning back to his own desk. He doesn’t care. The day is far from over and he knows that these coming hours will bring the same, boring hell as usual, so wasting time by pondering over some new recruit, or whatever he should be calling that new guy, isn’t really on the list of things he should be or even wants to be doing right now. He lets out a yawn, with already stiff fingers reaching for whatever job-related item happens to be closest to his hand. He won’t be able to leave before all work is done, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what task he takes on first. God, he could really use a drink right now.

  
With thoughts already blurring realising that a well-used ballpoint pen now lies rested between his fingers, he does despite the ridiculously overwhelming workload take a few, well-deserved moments to with slow, languid strokes turn the printed capital ‘O’ on one of the unsigned documents into a crying face. He rests in his chin against his left palm and chuckles, silently yet wickedly. A masterwork is in progress - soon, the first letter of his employer’s name will be gone forever, with ugly, admiral blue ink transformed into a poor, hardworking slave hanging by the neck, left to die because of his superiors' excessive avarice. He keeps drawing, a tiny body coming into being before his very eyes, by his very own hands. The limbs look a bit unrealistic but he cares to recall neither the croquis classes nor the anatomy lessons which Luhan has forcibly dragged him to, because the little guy is dead, not in need of functioning arms or legs. He chuckles, squeezing the pen with aching fingers, completing the body - now comes the interesting part. Slow, steady lines forming what is inequitable employment, the death of the worker. This is important. _Steady now_. The ink runs out. _Fuck_. He doesn't get to finish the noose.

  
Sighing, he drops the pen and rests against the all too uncomfortable backrest, not registering the sound of or even the feeling of sore vertebrae cracking. This always happens, will probably always happen. Be it burdensome superiors, nosy coworkers or even defective pens - something is always bound to disturb him eventually, to disrupt whatever attempt is made to cope with life more easily.

  
It’s not that he finds life hard per se. It’s just that he, even though he’s never really been nearly as adventurous as Luhan, can’t help but grow more bored as each new day passes. Maybe he shouldn’t have given up on that now long lost dream he used to have as a child, he finds himself thinking more often than never, but then again is there a reason for why “dreams” are called just that. “A visionary creation of the imagination; a state of mind marked by abstraction or release from reality.”

  
A release from reality.

  
Sighing again, he throws the pen at the bin overflowing with shredded paper and empty takeaway mugs, missing. He admits defeat, again. Perhaps, he thinks, a piece paper is what he is after all - bleached broken to fit into the aridity of office life and put into the shredder, not able to do anything but watch in painful silence as his own limbs get ripped apart slowly, not knowing whether anyone will ever try to put the pieces together and read whatever words were written on him. Maybe, his own story will end up just like these unsigned documents - in the trash bin where it belongs.

  
In a sudden tantrum throwing yet another empty pen across the desk, watching it bounce back and soar through the air, he rises to his feet and stomps away. A cigarette is what he needs, even though he knows that a nicotine break will do nothing but prolong his workday and have him return to Luhan as late as usual, with the familiar smell of death radiating from his mouth and clothes. He knows that his boyfriend hates it, that he rarely gets home before ten anymore, but deep inside, he doesn’t really care. If he is indeed destined to die in the office, then he might as well accept it as his home - or rather, his prison.

  
While in a haze rushing past busy coworkers, he can in the corner of his eye make out the new guy looking at him with a raised eyebrow, but he doesn’t care to glare back. Already fiddling with the worn edges of the packet of cigarettes which never really leaves his pocket, he just swallows the slightly unpleasant feeling of being watched and ignores him. That guy can stare as much as he wants, can even suck his ass for all Yixing cares - just give it a few weeks and he will know the pain.

 _  
Related to the CEO_. Yixing mutters and snorts, slamming the door shut. The scent of faux marble replaces the smell of stressed tears and sweat, leaving him relieved but not happy. _Then why are you here?_

  
Reaching the roof, he runs to the edge and resists the urge to jump, to just shut his eyes and wait for the ground to swallow him whole. The sun is shining all too bright but while it hurts his eyes, he pretends to enjoy it. He won’t be able to see it for the rest of the day, after all, and maybe that is why he decides to look straight at it, to stare until tears are running down his cheeks, soaking the collar of his button-up which is already stained with coffee and ink. Maybe he hopes to become blind so that he won’t be able to work anymore, or maybe he just likes the pain. He isn’t sure, but neither does he care. The only thing he knows in this moment is that he wants a break - he needs the taste of death, needs to feel it caress his tired lips as he inhales what will eventually cause him to choke on tar-flavoured cysts. For at least one short moment, he needs to just shut his eyes and dream.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re late again.”  


Yixing jumps a bit, not really surprised to find his boyfriend awake at this time but neither prepared to find him standing in the hallway, waiting. He takes a deep breath, nevertheless relieved to be met with a sad yet welcoming smile.  


While he did when entering their apartment complex hope to remain unnoticed, to not bother the person who should not have to deal with his late nights and his probably grumpy behaviour, he is still grateful. Luhan always waits, always stays up later than he has to just to be able to greet his boyfriend whom he rarely sees anymore because of their different schedules. Just standing there in nothing but his silky, oil paint-stained pyjamas, his glowing skin looking as soft and warm as always, he just smiles, waiting for the drawn out explanation which is sure to come.  


“I’m sorry, Lulu…” Yixing sighs, attempting to form an apologetic smile which in the end comes out more miserable than genuine. “Mr. Kim had me run to the dry cleaner after I spilt some coffee on his suit, so I missed the meeting and had to- No, wait, I remember now. It was latte. Mr. Kim always wants his damn latte, even though he _knows_ that it stains more easily and even though he _knows_ that it takes longer to make. ‘ _Yinxiang, you fool, you forgot the extra syrup! And this isn’t non-fat!_ ’” The imitated voice of his superior sends chills down every bone of his body, and he is too deep in recalling the day’s mental torture to notice that Luhan has sneaked up behind him, pulling him backwards against his chest. “I just don’t understand, Lulu. Why do I always have to run all these stupid errands for him? He knows that I have loads to do, yet he keeps asking me to-”  


Feeling a warm hand press softly against his mouth, silencing him, Yixing realises just how whiny he sounds. Again. Sure, he has all the right to complain, he knows this without having to have anyone explain it to him, but he also knows that it has nothing to do with Luhan who is now hugging him from behind, hushing him gently. He feels a bit bad for letting everything out just like that, but he does as usual not have the time to start apologising before his boyfriend squeezes him, with soft pecks to the neck reminding him that he’s home now.  


“You talk too much, Xing.” Luhan whispers before kissing his tense shoulder, and Yixing wonders why, why anyone would want to taste the shirt which probably still smells of office agony and bitter coffee. “Better not to linger on those things. It only makes it worse.”  


Humming painfully in response, a bit reluctantly admitting to himself that there is, in fact, a point to those comfortingly spoken words, Yixing simply lets himself follow limply as Luhan turns him around and leads him towards the bedroom. He’s tired, too tired for sex, but also too exhausted to even protest when he gets lowered onto the bed and peppered with kisses. It’s not that he doesn’t like to make love with his boyfriend, not at all - “a pair of oversexed bunnies” was what his old friends used to call him and Luhan back when he still hadn’t graduated from law school yet, back when he still had the time and the energy - but he is just tired, so tired, and honestly, a little bit scared. It never hurts physically - that’s never been a concern of his. It’s just that he knows what will happen, what always happens.  


He tries, he really does. With one hand stroking his boyfriend who after stripping them eagerly somehow ended up beneath him, Yixing keeps pushing, trying to keep up the pace despite knowing that he isn’t able to. It’s usually like this - Yixing trying to match his boyfriend’s speed, failing - and it hurts more every time. The only exceptions are when Luhan decides to skip the trouble and just do it the other way around, the way in which they always end up anyway, and those are the few moments in which Yixing doesn’t feel like dying.  


He feels as if the word “FAILURE” is tattooed on his forehead with blood or red ink, constantly reminding both him and his boyfriend of why polyamory might be something for them - or, for Luhan at least. It’s been a long time since Yixing was able to keep up the pace Luhan wants, since he’s even had an orgasm at all, and although Luhan knows this, he keeps trying. Maybe he just wants so bad for it to work that he forgets or even ignores the fact that Yixing’s workload and constant stress has caused him to lose his stamina, entailing great harm to his libido. Maybe he just wants to help, to make his boyfriend feel as if he’s capable again, that he is strong, giving. It doesn’t matter, though, Yixing thinks every time he finds himself filled with Luhan’s cum but without any of his own even leaking, because it never works anymore. It’s hopeless.  


While Yixing wants to come, to for once in a fucking while shoot into his boyfriend like he has done so many times before, he has since long given up on that idea. He can’t, he just can’t, even if he isn’t sure why these past few months have turned him unable to match with Luhan’s hunger and overall vigour. He wants to, but he can’t. Still struggling, he licks his own dry lips and shuts his eyes, giving it one last try as if he has not already given up. Beneath him, Luhan keeps whispering encouraging words, even an occasional dirty one, but the sound of his voice gets lost in exhausted sniffs coming from Yixing, resembling choked sobs more than anything else. He sighs and breaks their bond before flipping them around, gently pinning the already crying one to the soft mattress which has by now tasted too many tears.

  
Dejectedly locking lips, Luhan doesn’t notice how the second sigh he lets out gets caught by Yixing’s tear-stained lips, reverberating through his entire body before causing a sharp pain to shoot through his chest which is already stuffed with feelings of inadequacy. He doesn’t notice, because he is too busy kissing the man who is trying futilely yet so hard not to stain the sheets with tears instead of cum. It is in this moment, like every other moment like this, which Yixing knows that’s he’s really not enough anymore. He knows this when Luhan’s weight has him sink into to the bed, his boyfriend using a force which is weak but still so much greater than he himself can ever hold. He knows this when Luhan breaks the kiss and smiles sweetly, caressing his face while telling him that’s it’s okay, that he's doing fine. He knows this when Luhan presses into him slowly, having to take business into his own hands for there to be any pleasure at all. He knows this when Luhan comes only because he decided that Yixing’s ass feels better than his dick. He’s known for a while, but he still cries, even now.  


This is how they always end up nowadays, and Yixing can’t help but focus on the bitter taste of all those comforting kisses, the untuned sound of Luhan’s dejected voice telling him “Next time, baby.” He knows that he’s loved because Luhan keeps telling him so, but that doesn’t stop the tears from falling, from blurring his vision when he tries to look up into his boyfriend’s crescent-shaped yet sad eyes. He notices the love, the tiny sparkles which shine so bright even after three, long years, but the tears don't allow him to see past his own shame. He can’t stop crying silently, not until he falls asleep, because in those beautiful eyes looking down on him, there is something else as well, something he’s so tired of seeing.  


Taking Luhan by surprise by refusing one last kiss, Yixing buries himself beneath the covers and sulks, not even caring to wash himself up. He’s acting silly, he acknowledges that, but the sympathizing look in his boyfriend’s eyes is too much to handle and he doesn’t really want to look at himself in the mirror, to see his own swollen face before catching sight of the erection which is still there, not neglected but neither taken care of. Even considering to jack off in the shower is not an option anymore - not because it won’t work but because it feels wrong - and while he wants Luhan to hold him, he doesn’t let him. He loves his boyfriend, it doesn't even need to be said anymore, but the fear of what great sympathy will meet his eyes won’t let him turn back around to take comfort in that smiling face. He wants to hug Luhan, wants to cuddle with him like they once used to after sex, but times have changed and so has their relationship. He longs to be comforted, reassured, longs to be held by Luhan’s thin yet surprisingly strong arms, but he doesn’t want to be pitied. He just wants to be enough, to be able to return the touches without shame.

 

  


Still mentally exhausted after last night, Yixing sits by his desk as usual, wondering if his self-preserving mechanisms are beginning to falter. The morning tasks are supposed to be finished by now despite it being only forenoon, but while he knows that ploughing through piles of work would help take his mind off things, he still doesn’t even try to focus.  


He kissed Luhan goodbye this morning, as per usual. It wasn’t bitter, nor was it sad or even forced. A peck on the sleepy one’s forehead, followed by a tired hand grabbing his tie, pulling him down to lock lips. Luhan always stays in bed longer - him being a “struggling artist who makes his own schedule” and all - and while it would be nice to for once have breakfast together, Yixing doesn’t really mind. It’s not like he eats breakfast anyway, and he furthermore likes those sleepy kisses and the look on his boyfriend’s puffy face when he does that ugly yet sweet grin, slapping the leaving one’s butt a bit too hard before hiding beneath the covers again, pretending to be asleep. He likes those moments, because those are some of the few things which still hasn’t changed even after three years.  


He should be smiling at the thought of this, yet he can’t do anything but frown. It feels as if a hundred hungry worms are feasting on his brain, leaving all the rotten parts for last, and not even the fifth painkiller in a row seems to be helping. Maybe it’s the coffee, he thinks, surprised that he still has the energy to pretend but nevertheless happy to succumb to absurd delusions. The coffee machine has not been cleaned in months and the mugs are constantly stained with something everyone is afraid to peel off, even if they keep drinking from them without batting an eye.  


“So that’s where the worms come from…” Yixing mumbles quietly as he examines the strange, mushy string of something bathing in his coffee, its obscure colour creating an almost beautiful contrast to the black. “Oh well.” He shrugs and gulps the dark, bitter liquid in one go, the string along with it, not caring one bit about the part-worried, part-amused glance sent by Minseok.  


Leaning back into his chair, not even trying to get back to work, he recalls the sombre words mumbled by Luhan earlier this morning. “Don't get home too late tonight.” Yixing doesn't remember if his own smile felt genuine or not. "I’ll try.  


Scoffing at his own lie, he kicks the floor and spins in his chair, around and around like a bored little child. He doesn't care who might be watching him - he could strip or even throw himself out the window with the only response being a few raised eyebrows. It would, furthermore, not be that bad to be labelled “too insane for work”. If he is to be honest, it’s actually a recurring, quite a pleasant dream of his; a padded cell, friendly people stopping by from time to time just to check on him. Free food, having to leave bed only when in need of a bathroom. He hums, shutting his eyes, despite his misery not able to stop his lips from curling. Perhaps those padded rooms even come with built-in toilets, nowadays.

  
Finally reaching his desired level of dizziness, he drops his smile and stops spinning, only to stare at the wall which keeps moving around, multiplying into two, three, and later four masses of dull, cinder block grey. The great, golden letters nailed onto it scream at his face from where they hang, the pretentiousness of the Optima typeface enhancing the nausea caused by spinning. He squints, grieving the fact that his alleged insanity never actually turned out bad enough for him to be considered a lunatic. If it had, then maybe he would have been able to at least pretend that those gilt, expensive letters weren’t there.

  
“Oh Enterprises,” he mutters, remembering the dead man whose noose he never got to finish. “More like Pharaoh Enterprises.”

  
Eventually tearing his gaze from the wall, his eyes still squinting and his mind still dizzy, he notices an ugly face observing him from across the room. He isn’t sure why he calls it ugly, at least not after just one day. Perhaps it’s just his own insecurities speaking, but that doesn't stop him from doing it without shame, however silently. It’s one of the ugliest faces he has ever seen. That new guy, the transfer, the taxidermied kid - the one whose eyes are currently locked with his own glazed ones - is looking straight at him, with his dark gaze and stoic expression making him appear almost intimidating. Yixing feels far from threatened, though. He’s dealt with nosy coworker’s before, and never has he given anyone the pleasure of breaking through his thick yet transparent bubble of bitterness and misery. It doesn’t matter how beautifully ugly they’ve been - he’s never let a coworker make him feel bad about feeling bad for himself.

  
He snorts without trying to hide it, breaking eye-contact only to accidentally let his eyes fall on those golden letters again. _Oh Enterprises_. This is where he spends his days.

  
How he ended up working as something close to a secretary at the department of administrative accounting after finishing law school with top grades is a mystery to him, as is still his own decision to just live with it. He did when starting out know nothing about accounting - or about economy, administration, or this overall environment in general - but countless reprimanding slaps and a few benevolent coworkers taught him the basics. Now, here he is, too many years laters, and while he has turned to be somewhat good at what he is doing - whatever that is, Yixing doesn’t even know himself - he is still a mediocrity. Ambitions higher than maybe earning a raise sometime within the next ten years or so are all gone, since long faded along with his will to live. It’s not that this job in particular has turned him suicidal, though - he lacked the will before but has now, in fact, grown quite accepting towards the prospects of his life remaining miserable until he dies, meaning that he might as well take pride in suffering. He just doesn’t care anymore if his occasional walks to work ends with him getting turned into mash by the train which passes by his old apartment or not. No longer is he bitter over the fact that those past suicide attempts left him too exhausted to even try anymore. It’s true that, with the exception of his best friend and Luhan, no one would really mind if he died, but it doesn't really matter anymore. _As if anyone would even notice_ , he thinks, with already tired eyes still glaring at those golden letters. Maybe he is still a bit bitter, after all.

  
He thinks about Luhan. At least his struggling yet artistic boyfriend is going somewhere. At least he _wants_ to go somewhere. He has always been more ambitious than Yixing, despite his poor grades and the fact that obstacles always seem to be in his way. “I just gotta kick my way through them or at least sweep them under the mat” is what he likes to say when asked how or why he hasn’t given up yet, and while Yixing wants to be able to live by those words too, he can’t. Maybe it’s an artist-thing, an inherent ability which only some lucky people are born with. Maybe the undying flame within is something common to all artists, rich or poor, struggling or not. All Yixing really knows is that for him, it’s highly unattainable. A since long extinguished fire, forever dampened by lost dreams and relentless self-pity.

  
Wondering where it all went so wrong, when his own flame died, he sighs and turns to his desk. This job was supposed to open more doors than it closed - he wouldn’t have discarded his prestigious law degree if he had not been that naive - yet here he is. Stuck, probably forever, those golden letters and fancy watermarks mocking him for his stupidity. He wants to throw up, wants to get out, but he can’t, because starvation is despite his occasional daydreams about becoming a hunger artist not a concept which he finds particularly alluring. He isn’t happy with what life has provided him with, but then again, who really is?

  
He spins the chair a few more times. Day in and day out, an endless circle of constant suffering, deriving from having to work his ass of at this multi-billion company. Hell, he isn’t even sure of what they do, even less about what kind of “great cause” his own tedious tasks are contributing to. Every morning is the same, as is every late night. The Oh-so-typical business name written with bold, impactful letters on the polished facade of one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers is the first thing he sighs at and the last thing he gags at.

  
He shouldn’t complain that much, however. His desk is small but sturdy, ergonomically adjusted to suit a person of his height, even though he’s a bit shorter than the average male. Perhaps this is his one luck in life, he sometimes thinks gloatingly while with an evil smirk watching his tall, handsome coworkers having to bend over the small desks, causing their backs to ache even more than his own does. Maybe a nice desk is the only thing he has turned out to deserve, if one does not count Luhan or the fact that he, when it comes to his high level of education, is qualified enough to be working directly under one of the senior directors.

  
The sad truth is that he rarely gets to sit by this desk which is overflowing with caricature drawings of his boss and coworkers. Most of his time is ironically enough spent running from person to person, handing over one important document after another. Getting scolded by old, eminent men is something which he has grown used to by now, as is receiving annoyed sighs from baristas at the nearby coffee shop. Apparently - and Yixing cannot blame them - “no foam lattes with non-fat soy milk and two extra shots of espresso” is not a very popular order to handle, but he can’t do anything but lower his head and blush as he asks for it. It’s not his fault that his sleazy boss has got a tooth for complicated beverages, but then again is there nothing he can do about it. Slaps hurt, and although Mr. Kim has turned out to be more easy-going than his predecessor, Yixing still tries to avoid trouble at any cost. Murdering his eccentric boss by shoving a steaming hot mug of pumpkin spice cappuccino down his throat is, for the time being, at least, a reverie which should not come to fruition.

  
If Yixing is to be honest, however, working directly under Mr. Kim while still having his own desk shouldn’t be considered _that_ bad. It means a slightly higher salary than his average coworker, after all, and while it’s still not nearly enough for him and Luhan to afford a car, to finally be able to break free from hours of tiresome commuting, it still makes him feel at least a bit more important. Not that he’s ever cared about recognition, though. A little more than a desk boy is what he is, but nothing close to fancy. Scrubbing coffee stains away from his white button-up and overpriced slacks is, after all, part of his daily routine. It could have been worse, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy or even grateful.

  
Forcing himself to swallow a groan, he rises from his chair and stretches his back, twisting it one too many times as if he’s not already out of satisfying sounds. It’s useless, he thinks as he lets his somewhat sore ass fall back onto the black, once shiny leather of his supposedly ergonomic chair, frowning automatically when looks across the room again. The new guy is still looking at him, and the burgeoning headache, caused probably by the worms from the coffee he had earlier, does nothing to stop the slightly unpleasant feeling creeping up his spine by the sight of that marble face. Those dark eyes have been resting on him for far too long and while Yixing told himself only minutes ago that he wouldn’t let some new kid get on his nerves, he still can’t help but shift uncomfortably in his seat. He knows that his own behaviour can seem quite eccentric at times - his desk neighbour Minseok, the only person he ever really talks to except for Mr. Kim, once asked him if he’s on any central stimulants. No one has ever stared at him for this long before, however. Maybe that man is just as bored as he his, Yixing thinks for a split second, successfully trying to fight the unpleasant feeling, and the idea actually has him hate that ugly face just a little bit less.

  
He drops his frown when the guy finally looks away, watching as he with ridiculously long fingers starts to scribble down words onto the pages of what looks like some small, leather notebook. Yixing can despite stretching his neck not make out the words from the distance, but judging from the other’s sudden focus, they must be important. The man looks different than he did only seconds ago - his face is no longer blank but scrunched up in an indecipherable expression which makes him look older than he probably is, and the way his thick eyebrows furrow when he shuts his eyes as if to think distorts his heavy yet sharp features. Letting his gaze linger for a bit too long, not really sure why but all of a sudden intrigued by this man’s shift in character, Yixing can’t help but wonder what is going on inside of that handsome yet ugly head of his.

  
Tearing his gaze away, someway reluctantly for reasons he refuses to acknowledge, he does in an impulsive moment decide that life is indeed meaningless and that it thus doesn’t matter whether he finishes today’s or even this week's tasks or not. He doesn’t really need a job, anyway, even less a raise, which is why he with a determined expression sticks his hand into his pocket, reaching for a spare cigarette. Greatly anticipating the reactions, he leans back and chuckles - the look on Mr. Kim's face is going to be hilarious once he finds his favourite employee, borderline secretary smoking, right here by his very desk.

  
Not yet caring to bite into the poisonous stick, he keeps ravaging through his pockets in search of his lighter. When his hand reaches the bottom, fingertips brushing against old pieces of ripped cellophane, he remembers. _Fuck_. He left it at home, on top of the tall, mahogany bureau which looks so ugly standing there in their hallway, right next to the door. He hates that piece of fancy-looking furniture, hates its magniloquent style and the florid ornaments which would have made even the most neurotic baroque artist piss his pants in shock. He has done so ever since a happy Luhan drenched in sweat dragged it home from some obscure thrift shop he visited on a whim, but he has never had the heart to voice his complaints. This is yet another reason for his relentless self-loathing - not only is he unable to completely satisfy the sexual needs of the person he loves, but he is also helpless in front of his own fear of disappointing him. He knows that Luhan wouldn’t really care whether he hates that bureau or not, because they have both since long accepted and embraced their many differences in character and taste, but he doesn’t dare to take the risk. He doesn’t want to add yet another problematic aspect to their already strained life.

  
Despite the shame hating that bureau even more now that he knows that it’s currently the resting place of his lighter, Yixing breaks the cigarette in two and crumbles it between his fingers, in this sudden tantrum not caring about that he will surely smell of tobacco for hours. He doesn’t mind the smell, anyway - the acrid aroma has become a part of him, a proof of his full-fledged decadency and his unwillingness to follow Luhan’s advice to stop smoking before chronic obstructive pulmonary disease becomes a fact. He crosses his arms and pouts just a bit too childishly, wondering how a day is allowed to be this bad. It’s not even noon yet but he already feels like dying, and while trying to recall what could possibly have this particular day differ from any other, he remembers. Today not different at all. Every day is the same.

  
Throwing his head back, he squeezes his eyes shut and groans loudly. The annoyed sighs coming from his busy coworkers don’t bother him, just as the slightly curious glance sent by the new guy passes by him unnoticed. Feeling the hungry worms return to once again start gnawing on his brain, feasting their way through whatever pleasant feelings are left for him to enjoy on his way home tonight, he realises that there is no way out of this. He has to work, even though he doesn’t care nor want to. Not because he would be left without a salary if refusing, but because there is - with the only exception being impulsive suicide - nothing else to do. If dying is his only alternative, then he might as well kill two birds with one stone and choose to do so in a painful way. That is, by drowning in coffee-stained documents. _If only this will kill me_.

  
The pile of papers resting in front him is not a pretty sight, and he curses the executives’ decision to cut costs by limiting the use of computers on all floors but the 52nd. Oh Enterprises is one of the wealthiest business in the country, if not the entire world, so “cutting costs” cannot possibly be for any other reason than to add yet another zero to the CEO’s already unimaginable capital. Once again groaning, although not as dramatically as before, Yixing stares blankly at the masses of white, refined pulp, realising that he doesn’t even know where to start. Documents have been passed to him throughout the entire morning, and he now regrets acting so indifferent towards it. If only he had foreseen his decision to actually work, to not throw himself out the nearest window in desperate despair, then he wouldn’t have had to deal with this now. For a moment resting his face against his all too dry palms, pondering where to begin to tackle migraine, he doesn’t know whether to rejoice in relief or burst out crying when a shrill voice calls his name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yixing talks to Sehun for the first time.

“Oi! Xiufang!"

  
Yixing sighs. Whilst degrading pet names and ridiculous mispronunciations are part of his employment, something which he has grown destructively used to by now, this is new, or so he believes. He is used to having his real name forgotten or even intentionally mispronounced, but never before has he been called by a name typically assigned to females. Perhaps Mr. Kim isn't familiar enough with Yixing’s mother-tongue to know, perhaps he does it on purpose, but what does it matter. Why would his boss care to learn his name properly after two years, anyway?

  
Reluctantly yet obediently following the annoying voice, he soon finds himself in the small but fancy office he visits far too many times a day. If one is to call the 48th his second home, then Mr. Kim’s personal office needs to be considered the bedroom. That is, the ultimate escape from the strain that comes with everyday office life, but also the room in which stress is put upon him for entirely different reasons. He isn’t sure whether he hates it more than the rest of the floor or not, just as he doesn’t know if the walls of his and Luhan’s shared bedroom ogles him with more resentment than the rest of their otherwise cosy apartment.  
  


He shuts the door and forces a smile. There he is - in front of him, at a distance close enough to bring discomfort to he who prefers staying as far away as possible from everyone else than his boyfriend and his best friend, Mr. Kim is reclining in his chair, his lavishly dressed feet resting heavily against the shiny, coffee walnut desk. A sickened expression threatens to wipe away the inferior one’s polite smile as he notices the obviously expensive yet ridiculously looking sunglasses covering a third of the other’s face, but he manages to remain composed. He hates it here, hates everything about this place. Sure, Mr. Kim has never caused him any harm, has not once raised his hand at him or scolded him as bad as his father used to, but it doesn’t take much to come off as appalling to someone who has spent years of his life wallowing in self-pity.  
  


Yixing keeps smiling, trying to savour these few uneventful seconds of silence in spite of his facial muscles hurting. While there is no doubt about that Mr. Kim noticed his arrival - the ugly grin sent when his “secretary” entered is enough proof - he keeps quiet, and for laughable reasons. The magnetic puzzle cube squeezed between his fumbling fingers is far from solved and he looks almost desperate sitting there, greasy fingerprints staining the reflective surface of his sunglasses. He has, in fact, been playing with the piece for weeks, and judging by what Yixing knows about his overall demeanour and intelligence, it is condemned to remain unsolved for a very long time.  
  


Suddenly throwing it onto the table in a fit not very unlike the ones Yixing often suffers from, Mr. Kim groans, not caring about how its sharp metallic edges scratch the wood coated with slightly tinted lacquer. He sits up just a little bit straighter, but not straight enough for him to actually look worthy of the title “senior director”.  
  


“I need you to run and fetch me a venti, non-fat vanilla latte, two percent foam and an extra shot- no, make that two extra shots of espresso. Not too hot, though, but I won’t touch it if it’s lukewarm. Ugh, this hangover is killing me!” He throws his head back dramatically as Yixing scribbles the order down frantically, too busy with trying to catch every slurred word to despair over yet another obnoxious order. “Oh, and have the new kiddo hand this over to Mr. Kim- I mean the boring Kim.” He reaches for some bundle of crinkled documents and slides it over the desk carelessly.  “The committee needs it signed by four.”  
  


“Yes, sir.”  
  


Ready to leave and just get on with these unsurprisingly trivial directives, Yixing nevertheless pauses for a bit when he notices Mr. Kim peeking out at him from behinds the sunglasses, revealing the tragic state of his bloodshot eyes. He raises both eyebrows, parting his lips to inquire of him if there are any more tasks to be taken care of, but finds himself interrupted.  
  


“Why aren’t you laughing?” Mr. Kim asks with a next to offended expression on his face which is still bloated by last night’s alcohol intake, and Yixing starts to sweat just a little bit. Maybe this is it, he thinks while fleetingly wondering if stained slacks and a stinking button-up is the type of apparel he wished to die in. Maybe this is the moment in which the “cool, easy-going boss” finally snaps because of his secretary’s inability to recognise some far-fetched joke.  
  


“Should I be laughing, sir..?”  
  


Mr. Kim slams his palm onto the desktop, snatching his sunglasses off in a manner reminiscent of some bad B-actor whom Yixing used to idolise when he was still a child, small and easily impressed.  
  


“The new kiddo. Kiddo. Kid _Oh_. Get it?” His offended expression quickly dissolves into a proud grin and Yixing relaxes a bit, although with an inward sigh. Getting strangled by his very own boss wouldn’t have been the absolute worst way to die, although he does admit that it would have been a bit pathetic. Smiling tensely, he bows apologetically nevertheless. He doesn’t get the joke but he can’t imagine it to be a very good one, which is why he still has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes.  
  


“Ah, I apologise, sir,” he says as he lets out a short, feigned laughter, “That was very funny.” His lips are burning at this point but there will be enough time to sulk and suffer later. The wide grin let out by Mr. Kim on whose face “I’m hilarious, right?” is written with invisible letters is, furthermore, all he needs to see in order to leave without fear of getting scolded.  
  


After bowing once again, he turns around, eyes on the door. The allegedly important documents are resting uncomfortably in his hands with which he wants to do nothing else than to tie himself a nice noose, but the fact that he has to hand them over to this “new kiddo” before rushing to the coffee shop is suddenly not the only thing standing between him and fresh air. For some reason now positioned right behind him, fingers tugging at his sleeve to have him pause his steps, Mr. Kim smiles a greasy smile.  
  


“Buy yourself something too, Yinxing. My treat,” he says and winks cheesily, all signs of former hangover gone as he pats Yixing’s butt a little bit too intimately. Yixing just nods silently, polite smile still plastered on and no longer confident in his own ability to keep the veins visible on his forehead from bursting. Just because he is okay with his best friend covering his behind in bruises every other week doesn’t mean that he enjoys or even tolerates anyone else’s hand there. Mr. Kim is, however as usual, either too oblivious to notice or too indifferent to care. Lingering a bit too long with his palm against the soft curve of his employee’s ass, he leans in over his shoulder and speaks with a voice sleazy enough to subtract from its warmth. “I don’t wanna hear anyone around here whisper things about how Director Kim Jongdae lets his secretary walk around with bags darker than the CEO’s heart.”  
  


Yixing isn’t sure whether there is another wink or if it’s just his boss’ eyelashes fluttering against his ear as he leans in even closer, but he shivers nonetheless, not even sure which alternative he considers least torturing. As politely as possible slipping away back into his physical comfort zone, leaving Mr. Kim’s hand drop from his now burning ass, he mumbles a quick “thank you” and escapes quickly. He feels violated, but that’s nothing new - it is, in fact, something he grew used to far too early in his life.  
  


Exhaling sharply as he shuts the door behind him, he realises that he has been holding his breath for nearly a minute. _That guy sure is something_ , he thinks to himself as if to suddenly shake it all off as a joke, with a distressed frown trying to stop nasty memories from his childhood from resurfacing, from having him run straight for his desk and reveal his secret stash of fluoxetine. He doesn’t like this feeling, the one that comes irregularly and without any proper warning, but then again is there not much he can do about it than to keep it in chains until he gets home. Maybe tonight, just this night, he can convince Luhan to take a well-deserved break from his endless attempts to fix their broken sex life. He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, leaning against the wall next to Mr. Kim’s door while trying to regain his composure. Yes, no sex tonight. No sex at all. That sounds awfully nice. Too nice, if he is to be fully honest.  
  


Forcing his lids open again, he exhales, happy to find his breathing somewhat regular. It doesn’t matter what just happened, if Mr. Kim intended to tug at the loose stitches holding Yixing’s seemingly sturdy but, in fact, fragile sanity together or not. Yixing is determined to not let anything as petty as a hand on his ass add yet another facet to the dark-coloured prism which, with its dirty cracks and distorted refractions, keeps illuminating the many childhood memories that are better left forgotten. He refuses to let someone as unimportant as Kim Jongdae have a negative impact on him, and this might be the reason for why there is no reluctance in his steps as he drags his feet towards the new guy, ready to just finish these ridiculous tasks and report back.  
  


Whilst the guy’s dark eyes are now focused on something else than Yixing - the latter has not yet forgotten the many annoying glances he was the victim of earlier this morning - he still looks a bit intimidating sitting there, casually reclining in his chair as if he’s not merely an underpaid worker struggling for his livelihood. His stoic expression is still on, his thick eyebrows only slightly furrowed as he scans a crinkled paper resting between long fingers, but Yixing tries not to care. He’s met scarier before, has even worked for them, and while throwing up at this guy’s ugly face does sound a bit tempting, he still swallows what is left of the nausea caused by Mr. Kim and approaches.  
  


“New guy.” There is no immediate response as he stands there right in front of the desk, watching this “kiddo”(or whatever it is that Mr. Kim likes to call him) drop the paper only to grab another one. Clearing his throat, Yixing drops the bundle of documents to the desktop and raises his voice just enough for the other to finally look up, expression inquiring but nothing like confused. “Mr. Kim needs these signed by four. Make sure they get to the other Mr. Kim.”  
  


Letting out the quietest of hums, the guy breaks eye-contact, letting his gaze travel over the bundle of documents. “Sure.”  
  


Yixing shivers. At least this person’s informal tone matches his nonchalant face, he thinks, and while he considers to just leave now seeing as his own part of the task is finished, he lets his limbs rest for just another few seconds. The way the other reaches for the documents, browsing through them casually as if they’re his own business has Yixing just a bit intrigued, but nevertheless wondering if that is even allowed for a mere desk boy.  
  


“What’s your name?” he suddenly asks, meaning to sound authoritative but in the end feeling his stomach turn at the sound of his own meek voice. He isn’t entirely sure why he asked - the words kind of just slipped from his tongue - but he doesn’t deem it an irrelevant question. This guy annoys him for reason’s he can’t fully explain, to himself even less than to someone else, and the more you know about your enemy, the easier it will be to get rid of them. Not that Yixing will ever have the courage nor energy to tell Mr. Kim that this impudent kid has taken the liberty of flipping through documents meant to be delivered to his superiors as soon as possible, but it’s always nice to daydream.  
  


Shoving his hands into his pockets to outweigh his tendency to take a small, nervous step back whenever someone else establishes eye-contact, he does in light of what just happened at Mr. Kim’s struggle to keep his face straight. The other keeps looking at him, lingering for a moment too long as if for some reason considering whether to reveal his name or not, but his blank expression gives nothing away.  
  


“Oh Sehun,” he answers eventually, and Yixing freezes for a second, instant shivers going through his body. _Oh_. Of course, this brusque guy has to share the same name as the CEO of this godforsaken company. Recalling his desk neighbour’s words from yesterday, he opens his mouth and tries not to sound too unnerved. This person is probably just a distant relative. What kind of business could someone even remotely important have here, at the 48th?  
  


“Okay,” he clears his throat for the second time, feeling a bit awkward despite knowing that he’s got no reason to. “Thank you then, Mr. Oh. I’ll trust you to take these to Mr. Kim as soon as po-”

  
“Sehun.”

  
Standing there open-mouthed with nothing but a dumbfounded expression to cover his suddenly flushing face, Yixing stares at the one in front of him, the one whose own face is still sporting that obnoxiously, almost offensively impassive expression. He almost looks plastic with his sculptured nose and jaw, those thick yet neat eyebrows accentuating his dark, wide eyes, and Yixing feels his fingers sting with an urge to just escape his pockets and ruin that ugly face. He wants to strangle him, wants to see his eyeballs burst and pop out of that pretty little skull of his, but all he can do is stand there and look as stupid as this guy is emotionless.

  
“What?” he asks tensely, biting his lower lip in an attempt to not yell. It’s not that he’s angry - for all he knows, the one in front of him is not guilty of any more serious crimes than staring at him earlier this morning - but he feels taken aback, too uncomfortable in this situation. Perhaps it’s just the result of Mr. Kim’s hand on his ass, intensified by the sudden memory of last night’s failed attempt to make love to his boyfriend, and that is why he tries to withhold it. He knows that these fits have a lot to do with the excessive amount of painkillers and antidepressants he consumes on a daily basis - Luhan figured that out for him long ago, along with the reason for why he sometimes tries to leap from the roof while asleep - so he contains it, locks the chests and swallows the key.

  
Realising that the other’s expression has changed - if one considers a slightly raised eyebrow a big enough change to be mentioned - Yixing forces his all too intense thoughts to disperse. Shutting his mouth only to open it again as if getting ready to apologise for all those actions that were actually just part of his transitory reverie, he does however barely have the time to even dread the possibility of his thoughts having been read before the other speaks up, his raspy voice much softer than before.

  
“I’m younger than you. Just call me Sehun,” He grabs the bundle of documents which he seems to have dropped somewhere during this, to Yixing, mildly absurd conversation, before rising to his feet. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Junmyeon signs these right away.”

  
Slowly walking past the still flustered one, he smiles warmly only to let his face return to its former state after just a split second. A soft yet firm hand lands on Yixing’s shoulder, a stroking pat lingering as long as if not longer than Mr. Kim’s fingers on his ass. Yixing isn’t even sure if the smile really happened or not, if those crescent eyes were maybe just part of some abstinence-related hallucination. He remains frozen as the other disappears, feeling as if every crinkle on his coffee-stained shirt is an imprint left by long, slender fingers. He’s shivering violently, but he doesn’t feel nauseous. He’s blushing, but he doesn’t feel violated.

  
Ignoring the amused smirks sent a co-worker seated next to where he still stands, he shuts his eyes and shakes his head, not caring about how mad he might look while doing so. This is a feeling which he doesn’t particularly finds himself welcoming with his arms open wide, mainly because he doesn’t recognise it. It’s another one than before and while he admits that it’s not nearly as unpleasant, he also feels that it’s somehow still as undesired, as alien. He scoffs and turns around.

  
While shaking the remains of red off his cheeks as he walks away with fast, surprisingly steady steps, he keeps his mind busy by shooting imaginary missiles at the new guy’s smiling face whenever it tries to set itself on his corneas. He doesn’t have the brain capacity nor the energy to wonder how on earth this guy knows his age, if he even does, but little does it matter. What Yixing needs right now is to swallow his last box of fluoxetine before picking up that stupid non-fat latte and shoving it down Mr. Kim’s throat.

_  
Oh Sehun, huh. Brat._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for leaving kudos! I'm still new to AO3 so it makes me very happy. Comments are very welcome. ♡


	4. Chapter 4

  
_a few days later_

  
“Hey loser, guess what?” Baekhyun lets out joyfully as Yixing picks up the call in a haze. “There was a blackout at work this morning so we had to get rid of everything in some crazy ass clearance sale. I, however-” A chuckle appears, low and ominous and hinting at whatever bizarre deed the overly happy man is to about admit having done, “-managed to come across shittons of melting ice cream. My kitchen looks like a children’s haven right now so guess who’s coming over to lick it clean with me? That’s right - you!"

The sound of Yixing’s best friend’s voice sounds awfully bright to him whose forehead is coated with sweat and stained by sporadic strokes of blue gel ink. He has been working since early morning, committing to his role as an office slave, and the way he has to hold his phone in place between his ear and aching shoulder has him groan instead of answering. Piles of paper containing hundreds of disarranged documents lay resting in hands that are stiff and covered in tiny paper cuts, and as he accidentally knocks over his cup of now cold coffee, he cusses in grief for spilled energy while cursing himself for having spent the last few days lazing around instead of actually getting shit done.

“Hi Baek,” he manages to let out with a grunt as he bends over to pick up the cup, the noises of his back cracking having him wonder if this hopeless profession has actually shortened his lifespan already. Throwing his wristwatch the briefest of glances, he frowns unintentionally in realisation of that he has to disappoint his friend for not just the second or third, but the fourth time this week. “I’m sorry, Baek, but I can’t tonight… I promised Lu that I’ll get us dinner but I’m already late as it is.”

A bitter snort sounds through the speaker and he knows just what expression is painting Baekhyun’s face at this moment. “Doesn’t he spend enough time with you as it is?” his friend mutters, mood switched from bright to moody within seconds, and Yixing sighs, upset but in no way blaming Baekhyun’s bitterness.

“He’s my boyfriend, Baek, I can’t just-” he begins but breaks the sentence as the piles of documents manage to slip his hands again. Remaining quiet while he tries to pick them up, not only upon the discovery of that he is again being watched by Sehun from across the office but also because of the sudden wave of guilt hitting him, he wonders how to continue. He knows that it’s a sensitive topic - to himself, at least - and since he is technically the one who broke up his best friend’s last relationship, he can’t help but feel nervous each time the word “boyfriend” slips his own mouth. He is the one who stole Luhan from Baekhyun, after all, even though the latter was more than happy to slap and leave his cheating partner. It doesn’t matter for how many hours his best friend is capable of talking shit about his ex, telling Yixing that he “saved him from hell” - Yixing has felt guilty ever since that day three years ago, and he never knows how to handle the topic.

“Okay, okay, I get it, look-” Baekhyun mumbles, breaking the silence with his voice returning to its usual state. “I understand, I’m sorry, but you better hit me up soon! I haven’t seen you in ages and...” A fake snivel can be heard as he continues the conversation with a dramatic voice, “...I miss you, bunny.”

Rolling his eyes at his friend’s theatrics, Yixing smiles nonetheless, letting a laugh escape his lips that are dry due to exhaustion. It feels nice, he admits to himself as he picks up another pile of until now neglected documents, to for the first time in what feels like forever giggle genuinely instead of laughing sarcastically at his own misery. Ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his lower back as he stretches to reach yet another pile, he silently thanks his friend for being the only one able to make things a little bit better lately.

“Okay, okay, _Baekki_ , I promise,” he chuckles with feeling, his smile widening at the sound of Baekhyun blowing raspberries straight into the microphone. “I have to go now, though, I think I’m losing circulation in my-”

The sound of him moaning loudly fills the office space as he twists his ankle and stumbles unintentionally, every piece of heavy paper escaping his grasp as if they have wills of their own. Falling to his knees in response to the pain, he cusses hoarsely at the sight of the documents flying all around him, and only briefly does he catch Sehun shooting him an amused look from where he sits scribbling by his own desk. Struggling to find his phone which fell to the floor with himself, he picks it up and sighs at his friend’s crazy laughter.

“Sorry, Xing, it’s just funny hearing you suffer sometimes,” Baekhyun giggles and Yixing mutters in response to his rude humour, however finding his own already forming insults interrupted in a heartbeat. “This is why you should get out more, so don’t you dare not call me soon, bunny.”

He sighs in defeat while nodding to himself, already on his way to retrieve whatever important papers have spread across the floor. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Baek, don’t-”  he stutters before his head hits the edge of his desk, having him groan in pain and self-inflicted misery as the broken mug of now spilt coffee falls down for the second time that night, “-don’t worry.”

Baekhyun keeps chuckling, as incurably cheerful as always, but doesn’t linger too long seeing as he is perfectly aware of that this phonecall is, in fact, delaying Yixing’s work and thus postponing their awaited night of endless icecream-eating. “Okay?” he inquires instead of continuing to laugh, earning an impatient hum in response by Yixing who keeps crawling around on the carpeted floor, with his ever so soft voice having the latter wonder how on Earth he has managed to find such a good friend. “See you soon, then, bunny. Love you.”

“Yeah,” Yixing lets out, at least a little bit happy about having made plans that don’t involve trying to solve his and Luhan’s faltering sex life. “Love you, too, Baekki,” he mumbles quickly before wrapping up the call, letting his suddenly heavy ass hit the floor.

He sighs for the hundredth time since morning, shutting his eyes as he leans against his desk. His workspace is a mess but he decides not to fix it until tomorrow, because what does disappointing his boss matter when he has already disappointed not only his boyfriend but his best friend as well? Whining to himself, he slaps his own face and re-opens his eyes, his gaze travelling to the wall clock showing half past ten only to fall and land on Sehun who is still watching.

The grin is still there, the disgustingly amused one, and Yixing finds it just a bit uncomfortable. Not only is it rude to stare, he thinks despite admitting that he must be looking hilariously miserable where he sits and sulks, but that grin is also highly unusual. While Sehun is still “that new guy”, having been on the 48th floor for just a few days, he has with his never changing stoic expression already invited gossip about him being a sociopath. Not that the amused grin plastered onto his face now would make him any less of one, but Yixing still finds the shift of character a bit unpleasant.

He shuts his eyes again and thinks, deciding not to care about some brat who should be minding his own business. The floor is quite empty at this point, only a few hardworking others present during the time of night usually reserved for loved ones or quiet sleep, and so he invites silence to soothe his constantly buzzing ears. _Fucking tinnitus_ , he thinks as the sound disturbs his attempted peace, but tries not to linger on it when the memory of Baekhyun’s caring voice comes back to him.

He feels bad. His best friend has been nagging for weeks if not months to come and see him more, but work and self-loathing has kept him physically as well as mentally unable to. While he wants to see Baekhyun, his boyfriend’s past lover, to hear all about “that pretty cool guy named Chanyeol”, he’s been too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice the pain which his absence causes. He wants to spend time with him but he barely even has time to see Luhan anymore, and when he does, he’s either too tired or in a too bad mood to do much but sulk.

How he ended up even remotely close to the one who once slapped his face is still beyond him, but little does it matter when Baekhyun is all he has when it comes to friends, if one does not count Luhan who, if Yixing is to be honest, doesn’t share a lot of interests. While it is true that Yixing has on special occasions joined Minseok for an afterwork drink or a brief, silent lunch, an active social life is not on his list of achievements. Not that a wide circle of friends is something which he craves in particular, but sometimes, just sometimes does he grieve the fact that his life consists mainly of being alone.

Still thinking about his friend, he recalls that night on which the two of them found out about Luhan’s infidelity. Sure, the slap given by his current bestie did despite his relatively high pain tolerance hurt, but while the bruises on his sensitive cheek remained for a week, he did - much to his boyfriend’s chagrin - not hesitate to accept Baekhyun’s apology. He still remembers the day, still smiles whenever reminded of when Luhan’s ex dragged him outside and uttered the words “be my friend” in a way that sounded more demanding that encouraging. He still remembers Baekhyun's nervous expression, the way he bit his nails while waiting for an answer, but most importantly of all, he remembers the way his childish face lit up in joy when Yixing stuttered a positive response. “If you ever cheat on him, tell me,” the words were, mumbled by Baekhyun who didn’t wait to hug the one who was basically still a stranger. “Tell me and I’ll laugh with you,” was what he said when Yixing pulled back with a flustered expression, despite the shock and mild confusion happy about having gained a new friend.

With a smile recalling all this, Yixing feels his mind grow dizzy. It’s way past dinner time and Luhan is probably upset by now, pacing around their home in his paint stained, fluffy socks while muttering to himself. He always does that, Yixing knows, no matter how convincing his tired smile looks whenever he greets his overworking boyfriend by the door past midnight. He always pretends that everything is fine, even though they’re both aware of what a monotonous limbo their relationship has turned into.

 _Great_ , Yixing thinks as he opens his eyes once again, the golden, Optima-typefaced letters on the office wall multiplying before him due to drowsiness. _Try to remain happy for more than just a minute, will you?_

Sehun is still eyeing him, almost invitingly so, when Yixing stands up and grabs his coat. It feels almost bizarre, somehow, the way his heavy features now look soft and gentle, how his lips are now curled up in a weak smile looking more friendly than amused. It feels _weird_ , Yixing admits with a shudder as he ignores the small, welcoming wave sent at him and turns around, not until now realising that they are by now the only ones left.

Wondering if his new coworker is perhaps suffering from some kind of dissociative identity disorder, or if he is just the manipulating sociopath which he has been called in secret during these past few days, Yixing grabs his bag and blushes. He doesn’t why his face turns pink but he whisks it away as simple exhaustion, and as he passes Sehun whose smile grows wider but whose mouth remains shut, he scoffs silently while telling himself that Baekhyun is the only friend he will ever need. Oh Sehun can keep smiling or smirking however much he wants to, for all Yixing cares - those handsome features adorning his ugly face won’t fool anyone into thinking that he’s any less of an underpaid office slave than everyone else are.


	5. Chapter 5

Instead of using hard work to make up for accidentally oversleeping, Yixing does the next morning find himself sprinting up the stairways in a desperate attempt to flee his crazy boss.

“Where’s my Yinxing, where’s my _favourite secretary_ -” was what an unexplainably happy Kim Jongdae ran shouting as he arrived no earlier than his late employee, oversized sunglasses on as usual and an iced, sugar-free latte in his hand. Suspecting that there must have been something a bit for alcoholic than just organic soy milk in that latte, Yixing just made a run for it, determined and convinced that whatever punishment might be the result of hiding is definitely preferable to a drunken hand on his ass.

Finally reaching the rooftop of the Oh skyscraper, he resists the urge to in pure exhaustion fall to his knees and cry. Instead leaning against the concrete barrier which is the only thing separating him from a fall of two hundred metres, he shuts his eyes and inhales almost aggressively, sucking in the fresh air as if it would actually help cleanse him of the fumes of hell.

He sighs deeply, still feeling bad about disappointing his bestie and even more bad for disappointing his boyfriend. While Baekhyun probably ended up calling someone else over last night, tired of Yixing and his constant betrayal, Luhan just went to bed early after spending his night alone, not even greeting Yixing by the door like he usually does. It was startling, almost underwhelming, if Yixing is to be honest, being met with nothing but the ugly bureau staring back at him in resentment despite being inanimate. No sad smiles, no tired lips telling him that “it’s okay, because he’s working so hard”. Yixing did when sneaking quietly into bed not even know whether his boyfriend was actually sleeping or just too disappointed to return the goodnight kiss.

Opening his eyes, he does despite the beautiful weather find himself wondering how he still has the energy to keep doing this. He hates his job, his boss, and himself, keeps disappointing Luhan and spends more time wallowing in self-pity than socialising with his one and only friend. He is a big, fat failure, an unneeded burden to this corrupted, capitalistic society which he actively resents on a daily basis, anyway. He isn’t needed for much more than office slavery, and his ass happens to be the only physical part of him still mattering. Not only to Mr. Kim who grabs it regularly and to Baekhyun who likes to cover it in bite marks, but also to Luhan who despite his repeated attempts to help Yixing feel sexually capable again prefers his boyfriend’s hole to his dick.

Squinting at the sun, Yixing hums to himself and considers. Maybe he can just hang himself again now that the water leakage upstairs has been fixed. Perhaps he can stop by at the taxidermist before doing so, ask them to stuff each of his buttcheeks and present them to Baekhyun and Mr. Kim separately. His friend wouldn’t be happy to not receive the full package, of course, but apart from that being the last, ultimate disappointment of the 48th floor’s biggest loser Zhang Yixing, the latter reluctantly admits that since Mr. Kim has at least never slapped or demoted him yet, he might as well thank him for that. As for Luhan, he thinks deeply, not really knowing what to leave behind. Perhaps a life-sized cast of his anal canal, or a sincere, handwritten note telling him that he _really does love that ugly bureau_. Yes, that would be perfect. Or not.

He laughs aloud but it sounds more like a choked whine. To once again decide to kill himself would, in fact, only result in a reincorporation of repeatedly failed suicide attempts into his life. He has been proven to be failure, after all, and failures don’t succeed at anything, not even simple self-slaughter. With Yixing’s luck, he would if falling down these sixty floors probably end up in a conscious coma or, at the very best, a vegetative state.

Pouting childishly at himself, he decides to leave the matter of suicide for later. He’ll probably end up in hell, anyway, and since life on earth is no less infernal, he might as well wait and spend his time accumulating enough suffering for the eventual fires to feel soothing.

He grabs his packet of cigarettes, at this moment just as in every else not caring about the stench it will cause. Coughing out phlegm might, furthermore, give Mr. Kim a reason to stay away or even send him home, and although Luhan has many times begged Yixing to stop smoking, the later scoffs at the option of giving up future cancer. _You’re nasty, Xing_ , he recalls as he searches his pocket for a lighter, shuddering instinctively when his fingertips brush against old, half-burnt cigarette butts. _You taste like death_ , he thinks with his boyfriend’s voice and chuckles, already knowing that dying would be a great thrill compared to working in this shithole of an office.

Finally ready to bring fire to his cigarette, he flicks the lighter once, twice, thrice, but there comes no flame. Trying it again and repeatedly and with more force each time, he cusses and mutters when his efforts remain futile. There is not even any wind which is why his frustration only grows, and as he cuts his thumb by flicking the sparkwheel too hard, he stomps his feet and groans in mild pain.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he blurts out loud, not yet aware of that the rooftop isn’t empty. He has never cared to buy one those expensive, well-functioning lighters since his forgetful self always manages to lose them before they run out of gas, but as he stands there now without fire, he curses his decision to overlook the fact that with low price comes cheap quality. Perhaps this is another sign, he thinks while sighing dramatically, peeking down over the edge of the building with the cigarette still squeezed between his muttering lips. Maybe this is really the day on which he should try again, he thinks while leaning just a bit too far over the edge, somewhat relieved to find his body reacting positively to the idea of impulsive suicide.

Already trying to calculate how many seconds it will take before his body hits the ground, he suddenly jerks when a fire appears just before his face. Stumbling backwards, he cusses again but now in surprise, however turning silent as he looks up and spots the one looking at him blankly.

“Do I really scare you that much?” Sehun asks, the corners of his mouth pointing only slightly upwards when Yixing’s cigarette falls from his lips. A shiny zippo rests between his slender fingers, still igniting that impressive flame, but as Yixing keeps quiet while staring in shock, he shuts its lid and retreats his arm.

“No, you don’t- I just-” Yixing manages lets out weakly, not really knowing why the face before him has him stutter but already forgetting the bitterness of having his suicidal plans disrupted. “I’m sorry, bra- Mr. Oh- I mean Sehun, you just-” he mumbles while struggling, knowing that the sudden grin on Sehun’s lips should annoy him but nonetheless too flustered to do much else than blush. “You just startled me, that’s all.”

A quiet laugh leaves Sehun’s grinning lips but it doesn’t sound harsh, neither snide or even amused. Squatting gracefully to pick up Yixing’s cigarette, he keeps the smile on until handing the stick over. A light breeze brushes past, having his perfectly combed back bangs come undone and caress his forehead, and as he lights a cigarette for himself, Yixing forgets all about amateur nooses and self-inflicted coma.

Staring almost shamelessly, the latter lets his thoughts wander in unwanted directions. Sehun is smoking but he doesn’t look decadent, and although he once claimed to be younger than Yixing, his youthful appearance gets outweighed by the strength of his sharp features. He looks a bit like one of those excavated marble busts that Luhan once cried over when dragging his artistic imbecile of a boyfriend to Musée du Louvre, if one ignores the beautiful contrast between the paleness of those stone figures and the healthy tan on Sehun’s smooth skin. He looks almost _unreal_ , Yixing finds himself thinking before he forces himself to look away, suddenly remembering that he should, in fact, be hating this person. Not because he has any particular reason to, but simply because he wants to.

Nevertheless accepting Sehun’s offer to light his cigarette, he leans back against the concrete barrier and inhales the smoke in a wave of defeat, yet relieved. While he wants to be left alone, to proceed with his self-destructive thoughts while finally being able to enjoy this long awaited nicotine rush, he can’t help but give credit to the other for not being nearly as annoying as he initially seemed.

Minutes of silence pass by as they just stand there smoking, beside each other but at a comfortable distance. Sehun doesn’t ask about Yixing’s earlier outburst or why he was leaning so far over the edge, and Yixing expresses gratitude by at least saving him the trauma of having to watch a coworker throw himself down one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers. It feels almost even nice, the way a great calm conquers his system when he squints at the sun while enjoying the rush, but before he can figure out what brand Sehun is smoking, what makes the smell of his savoury smoke differ from Yixing’s acrid one, silence is broken by an anticlimactic cough.

Crushing the half-burnt cigarette against the sole of his dress shoes, Sehun clears his throat before tossing the now crumpled stick over the edge. His bangs are all undone by now but he runs his lean fingers through them, as if with some dark magic having them fall right back in place over his head. Turning to Yixing who finds himself staring again, he sports a tiny smirk, grabbing his lighter only to hand it over casually.

“Keep it,” he says with a wink as he grabs Yixing’s hand gently, forcing the suddenly blushing one’s fingers to wrap around the small gadget. Lingering for just a bit too long - if you ask Yixing, at least - he sighs but keeps smiling, throwing the sun one last glance before he pats a tense shoulder and leaves. “See you downstairs, Yixing.”

Yixing stops working. His skin is burning and not because of sunrays, and his mind is for a minute or more filled with only vacuum or maybe dust. Tearing his gaze from the door through which Sehun just left, he looks at his own hand, at his shivering fingers that are still clenching around that probably expensive lighter. _Brat_ , is the only thing he can bring himself to think as he shakes his head and orders his limbs to move, and as he throws the lighter over the edge in a fit, he wonders what is wrong with himself. Watching it fly down those sixty floors past newly washed windows, he wishes that he had the ability to teleport so that he could be down there for the device to hit his head and kill him in an instant. Leaning unsteadily over the edge while watching the faraway sidewalk, he nevertheless hopes that he didn’t just accidentally kill a dog or something.

He can't figure out what is the cause of his sudden shame, and as he sprints down those sixty stairs, he is too much a mess to even remember that he has never given Sehun his name.

 

 

Maybe Sehun isn't actually that bad, Yixing finds himself thinking over dinner, although reluctantly. He has got that ugly face and those prying eyes, sure, but he doesn’t talk and neither does he hesitate to help a fellow smoker out. Shoving a spoonful of Luhan’s undercooked excuse of a meal into his mouth without caring whether it is poisonous or not, Yixing recalls the day and drifts into deep thought.

The lighter was broken when he finally found it on the sidewalk, its great quality, however, keeping most of its pieces in place. It won't work anymore but Yixing doesn't find it in him to throw it away, and although it doesn't weigh that much, it still feels heavy resting in his pocket. It’s a shame, really, he thinks as he swallows something suspiciously sweet, the fractured state of that expensive source of fire. _Did Lu put sugar in this?_ he wonders while asking himself when the hell he’s going to find time to buy a new lighter.

Feeling something slimy get stuck between his teeth, he coughs and shudders but refrains from speaking up. He isn't sure what is on his plate but he doesn't care to ask, because although the food before him looks too much like raw entrails for it to actually be considered food, he doesn't want to pick a fight. Luhan tries, has always tried, and Yixing would himself, if he is to be honest, not do much better. It is, furthermore, his own damn fault that he forgot to stop by their favourite takeaway-place.

Shuddering again when Sehun’s smiling face appears before his eyes, he picks up a piece of wet meat and forces it to slide down his throat. The lighter feels heavier as each second passes by and while he doesn't have a reason to keep it, he still doesn't want to throw it in the bin. _Is this paint or sauce?_ he wonders as he pokes the food before holding his breath in order to devour it without gagging, silently and secretly wondering what brand of cigarettes Sehun likes to smoke. _Maybe it’s just blood. Huh._

“I'm glad you could make it home early tonight, Xing,” he suddenly hears, dropping what _could_ be a vegetable as his boyfriend's sombre words pulls him out of reverie. Luhan chuckles softly, although weakly, his voice gentle but devoid of any genuine warmth. “Even though it's still technically past dinner time.”

Not caring to pick the vegetable up again, Yixing feels the shame return to him. It’s almost midnight already and although he can’t control his own schedule, his mistake of a career choice is still the reason for this uncomfortable silence. “Me too, I’m glad,” is what he mumbles eventually, gaze lowered as he as unsuccessfully as expected tries to come up with some apologetic words. “I’m sorry, Lulu..."

“No, no-” Luhan protests, his eyes widening at the sight of his miserable wreck of a boyfriend. He is always like this, Yixing thinks with a sad frown while wondering what could possibly have caused such a selfless person to ever cheat on him and Baekhyun. He’s always like this, pure and too nice, never forgetting to pretend that their relationship isn’t boring nowadays. “I know you’ve been working hard lately, baby. I’m sorry if I’ve seemed whiny or anything.”

Silence follows as they continue to eat, but it doesn’t feel as suffocating as before. While the mood is still awkward and although the food before them looks more alive than edible, Yixing doesn’t really mind. Chewing quietly on the remains of dead animals, he does for one moment forget about some broken lighter, and by the time Luhan laughs at his poor excuse of a homecooked meal, he actually feels a shy smile pull at the corners of his own lips.

“I have something for you, by the way,” Luhan suddenly lets out, causing his boyfriend to jerk just a bit as he pulls out his chair and darts out the room. The sound of stuff falling to the floor and crinkled paper getting handled can be heard, and as he returns with a grin on his face, dragging with him something huge, flat, and wrapped, Yixing watches in sudden curiosity.

It’s beautiful, really, the A0 sized painting now resting against the wall before which Yixing stands staring with his mouth slightly agape. It’s beautiful in its own, peculiar way, even though it looks an awful lot like blood and vomit. Maybe it actually is, he considers while smiling, knowing that it wouldn’t surprise him - Luhan has always had a thing for the ugly and grotesque. Perhaps that is why he decided to let Yixing replace Baekhyun.

“No gallery wants it, not even my own,” Luhan scoffs, although amusedly, sneaking up to peek from behind. “I put a lot of effort into it but I wasn’t sure whether you’d like it or not,” he sighs with a smile which is proud yet sad, wrapping his arms around his gawking boyfriend who doesn’t really notice the head resting against his shoulder, the tired lips painting his neck with gentle kisses. “I know you’ve never liked my art.”

Ready to disagree, Yixing shakes his head in protest, causing Luhan’s lips to leave his skin. While he has never been even remotely artistic, looking at supposedly incredible works through eyes that only see colour and shapes instead of technique and effort, he has not once denied his boyfriend’s skill or talent. While it is true that he doesn’t understand the work of art before him, he still acknowledges its aesthetic qualities. “What are you saying, Lulu, I love your art-”

“Hush, baby,” Luhan almost whispers, his lips not proceeding to kiss but his hands finding Yixing’s more shrivelled ones. Entwining their fingers in order to guide them, he lets them trace gently over the canvas and linger. “Feel it?” he asks quietly with a smile, forcing his boyfriend to explore the texture, the fine relief made out of chemicals and brushstrokes. “ _Rilievo schiacciato_. My shy take on exploring the boundaries between abstract oil painting and renaissance sculpture. I was aiming at the sublime.”

A low chuckle has their bodies vibrate, the sudden proudness in his voice sounding quite funny to Yixing who can’t help but think that there is nothing “shy” about his boyfriend’s painting. Returning the chuckle, not even aware of the comfort brought to him by the hands stroking his and the breath caressing his neck, he hums peacefully and drags his fingers across the canvas. He doesn’t understand nearly half of what Luhan just said, but he appreciates the explanation nonetheless.

“I like the red,” he hums, scanning the valleys of deep bloodlike crimson. Lingering in the spirals, the distorted face encircled by juniper, hickory, and some sporadic indigo, he tilts his head and squints his eyes. He is afraid to ask, yet he can’t stop himself from wondering. “I like it, but… what is it, though?”

The loud laughter surprises him, the gleefulness audible in Luhan’s voice having him grimace in fear of having said something wrong, something stupid. Squeezing the hands holding his in a sudden fit of involuntary nervousness, he tries to speak again but trembles. It is true that he’s stupid, or at the very least artistically uneducated, for he is, after all, a mere desk boy. A social failure, someone who gave up on his every dream. A target of mockery, a product of child abuse. He starts to sweat, but Luhan’s voice remains warm.

“It’s you, silly,” are the giggles words that have him snap out of it, realising that his boyfriend would never really ridicule him. Allowing himself to drift out of worry, he touches the painting again, harder than before and with more determination. Staring intensely, he examines the surface, trying to see it, to notice the resemblance. He looks, and it dawns upon him, the fact that those strokes are in fact his own body. He _looks_ , and he sees it, the bizarre similarity between those crooked lines and his own, crooked life.

“Oh,” he breathes as he freezes entirely, his index finger poking the middle. Calloused skin sinks into thick, red paint when he leans a bit forward, and “ _oh_ ” escapes his gasping lips again as he sees his own face, staring back at him blankly.

“You and your inherent misery,” Luhan explains with a laugh, hugging him tightly before kissing his neck. “Pretty accurate, huh?” he asks as he slips beneath his boyfriend’s shirt, hands travelling over hips and further.

The air turns hot but Yixing doesn’t notice, because before his eyes is only that portrait. Zooming out, he watches himself, his black, sunken eyes or what is at least supposed to look like them. Finally recognising himself, that feeling of hopelessness and contempt visible in every aspect of his own dysfunctional body, he lets out a sigh as Luhan unzips his pants. The feeling of self-loathing comes back to him in that moment, the undying frustration of having failed his every dream and not only one, but two suicide attempts. A longing for sedative substances overwhelms him as lips wrap around his stiffening length, but although the pit which is his misery seems hopelessly bottomless, he still shivers when some kind of chaotic peace enters his body, a peace born from having acknowledged and accepted his own insufficiency.

Still staring at that painting when Luhan’s hair tickles his stomach and when sounds of slurping should have him look down, he narrows his eyes and attempts to converse. _You, huh,_ he says to himself as he stares into his own eyes and tries to establish dominance, his insides only slightly tingling when his boyfriend’s mouth creates a vacuum around him. _What are you looking at?_ he asks before he comes too early, too deep in self-reflection to notice that Luhan just gave him head.

It is his first orgasm in months, yet he doesn’t realise. Too busy searching that portrait while fighting the sudden sense of existential anguish, he falls to his knees in unrecognised exhaustion. His breathing is ragged but he isn’t aware, and as Luhan walks off with a disappointed frown, he focuses his gaze. _Who are you?_ he asks while glaring at himself, in vain trying to get an answer out of an object. The mutters leaving his boyfriend’s cumstained lips pass right by him, as does the satisfaction of having come undone, and when unwanted images enter his mind, he shuts his eyes- no, squeezes them shut. He shouts at himself but there comes no response, no words uttered by that painted figure before him. Luhan slams their bedroom door but Yixing is busy fighting the intrusive images of his new coworker’s grinning face, and as complete silence follows, he notices that the lighter has fallen out of his pocket.

_See you downstairs, Yixing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a lot for commenting! It makes me very happy to hear what you think ♥


	6. Chapter 6

_next night, at baekhyun’s place_

“So have you cheated yet?"

Yixing looks up from his box of ice cream and noodles, glaring at his friend who sits cross-legged before him on the bed. The question is, unfortunately, a given part of each and every one of their conversations, but that doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes at it, even now. Baekhyun might be a few years younger than him, sure, but he is in any way too old to be acting like some diabolical teenager with a penchant for drama and all things revenge.

“I’m not cheating on him, Baek, and I don’t plan to,” Yixing murmurs, stirring the food which is way too saucy with all that melted ice cream, yet a whole lot better than last night’s plates of butchered animals. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Baekhyun snorts but he ignores it completely, wiping some ice cream off his lips before sucking it off his fingers ungracefully. It drips from his chin, staining his white, half-buttoned shirt which he didn't care to take off after work. Baekhyun keeps whining like the overgrown teenager he is, slurping his own noodles in between sentences.

“Why not? Come on, loser! Don't tell me the look on Luhan’s face would be hilarious!”

The words replay in Yixing’s mind a few times as he downs a good portion of the unholy concoction. The ice cream doesn’t even taste like raspberry since its pumped with air and unhealthy colourants, yet it runs down his throat with ease. A frown finds his face as bits of mushy vegetables get stuck between his teeth, but it is neither that nor Baekhyun annoying voice that has his head hurt, but himself.

“Hey, are you even listening to me?”

_Look at yourself, loser. Ignoring your best friend while he feeds you. You’re pathetic._

He sighs and takes another bite, trying to come up with a way to change the subject. He doesn’t want to think of the option, even less converse so lightheartedly about it.

Even if he had been cheating on Luhan, he wouldn’t have told Baekhyun about it. Not because of some ungrounded fear that his friend would go snitch on him, no, for he knows perfectly well that what is whispered between them two, stays between them two. The truth is that is he doesn’t want to laugh about it; Baekhyun might have come to a point where he considers cheating on cheaters the funniest vengeance, but Yixing finds nothing is such an act to giggle over.

He shivers involuntarily, making a mental reminder to his future self that beef-flavoured noodles with raspberry ice cream is _not_ a good combination. Still taking yet another bite, he wallows in the taste of suffering as the so-called food fills his empty stomach.

Baekhyun starts poking him then in frustration, causing the vomit-coloured mixture to splatter onto the bed which is already unmade and covered in suspicious stains that look an awful lot like milk or maybe yoghurt.

“Hello? Earth to Loser?” He laughs in spite of being ignored, now just as always using laughter to cover up his own emotions. It is a peculiar talent of his, keeping negative thoughts away from everyone else, an art which Yixing can only dream about mastering. “Did I say something wrong? Did you have a stroke? Xing? Xing, Xing, Xing, Xing, Xing–”

He keeps it up for a good few seconds, with fervent fingers poking Yixing until the latter’s mind collapses on himself and he shoves the hand touching him away.

“What?!”

He feels a bit bad for snapping, for raising his voice at his very best friend. He can't help it, though – not with the amount of numbing as well as stimulant medication he consumes on a daily basis, mixed with a nasty quantity of cheap brand cigarettes and the occasional sips of vodka for breakfast. The anger usually fades rather quickly, however, by virtue of his severe mood swings, and he is thankful towards Baekhyun who never seems to mind his sporadic outbursts. The latter is, as a matter of fact, far too used to his unstable temper, despite his questionable morality the most precious friend anyone could ever ask for. The fact adds even more to Yixing’s shame and constant self-loathing, having him lower his head now in embarrassment and remorse.

“I was just saying that you can fuck me if you want to,” Baekhyun explains for the probably hundredth time since they first met three years ago, his lips still curling even now as if no cheating or shouted words can ever bring him down. Leaning a bit forward to pat Yixing’s thigh, he licks his lips just a bit too seductively, either exaggerating or failing to conceal his own intentions ”Or let me fuck you, at least. Give that cheating asshole of yours what he deserves. No little bunny of mine deserves to be with such a person.”

Yixing blushes without knowing why as he slaps Baekhyun’s arm with force, earning a loud, childish whine in response. His previous anger has already subsided, now forgotten and replaced with something entirely else which does for himself not necessarily feel much better.

“Oh, come on,” Baekhyun mutters while caressing his hurting arm as if it has feelings of its own. “It would be the perfect revenge. Besides, we’d make an adorable couple. We’re both cuter than him, anyway, way cuter.”

Those are the words that have Yixing’s frown return, once again. “It isn’t true,” is what he wants to say because in his crooked world, Luhan is still the cutest thing, with his sparkling eyes and effeminate face making him the only person in the world able to fit into a pair of fuzzy socks without looking ridiculous. Yixing tried a pair on one time, looking more like an ageplayer than the adorable bunny his boyfriend has kept calling him ever since that day in repeated attempts to steal that nickname which was, in fact, at first coined by Baekhyun.

Yixing wants to say it, to whisk Baekhyun’s repeated propositions away and tell him that Luhan will always be the cutest, yet he finds himself unable to do so. He doesn’t understand what subconscious reasons are holding him back, but he decides not to linger on it when the image of a certain new guy at the office suddenly pops into his brain with neither reason nor permission.

He shudders.

Luhan _is_ the prettiest thing. He has to be at least.

“I don’t want revenge, Baek, you know that” he mumbles eventually, overcome with shame as he once again seeks refuge in the food. Sehun’s ugly face keeps haunting his mind, but he manages to twist it into an image of Satan. “I just want peace.”

A groan follows and he thinks, quite amusedly, that if violent rolling of the eyes were a thing, it would be Baekhyun’s thing.

“ _Peace!_ ” his friend exclaims as he throws his arms in the air dramatically before shoving a finger into Yixing’s ribs. “Why did I expect you to say that?”

Yixing flinches and chokes on a noodle, the taste of artificial raspberry travelling up his nose when he starts coughing uncontrollably after the attack.

“Be–because, let me quote–” He hits his own chest in order not to die of asphyxiation, not really knowing why since his life is as pathetic as his whole existence is pointless. “–’I’m your best friend and soon-to-be-boyfriend and you know me better than anyone ever will’.”

Baekhyun grins and stops poking his side, as always more than happy with the rehearsed response.

“That’s right, that’s right.”

He giggles, letting his eyelids fall shut as he lies down on the bed with a smug grin. His head is right there, as usual, resting against Yixing’s thigh and with his hand playing leisurely with the hem of those coffee-stained slacks, his finger “slipping” to stroke the skin just beneath. His intentions are as clear as Yixing’s trembling, but unlike Yixing, he isn't ashamed. He never was, and he never will be.

He chuckles again after just a few seconds, his hand resting gently a bit too close to the crotch which he has more than once grabbed “accidentally” while drunk. He doesn’t even waver, and neither does the one beneath his touch.

“Well, I think we should date, anyway, and have some really kinky sex.” His mumbles come across as sleepy, but the mischievous, yet contented smile on his lips gives it away. “Or vanilla, if you’d prefer an easy start. You'd make a better boyfriend than he ever was, you know.”

A short pause follows that sentence, silence inviting the words to sink in, and he sighs deeply, just as after every time his wishes remain uncared for. Yixing sighs too then, used to it but nonetheless distressed; he might be slow at times because of his medication, but he sure as hell isn't thick enough to miss the way Baekhyun pronounces the last, few words with a sort of admonishing disappointment, his lips spilling not only longing, but worry as well.

“You're better than he will ever be, Xing.”

Yixing doesn't answer. He doesn't even _have_ an answer.

It is true that Luhan cheated on them both, but that doesn't change the fact that he still tries so hard to make up for past mistakes. Baekhyun might have struggled since then to convince Yixing to break up with that “monster”, but the latter finds no reason to give in. It doesn't matter how broken or boring his and Luhan’s relationship might be or that orgasms are nowadays a one-sided luxury; they love each other, after all these years, the office slave and the suffering artist, more than Baekhyun ever loved the latter.

Well, the slave loves the artist, at least. Yixing has never really found any reason for anyone else to love his own pathetic self.

“I thought you had a thing with that tall guy, by the way,” he says after a while when the sudden silence has his tinnitus act up, his thigh growing numb under the weight his friend’s heavy head. “It’s rude for you to ask me to have sex with you.”

He starts chugging the melted ice cream again, wanting to dispose of this unwanted anxiety or at least replace it with nausea or something else. No matter what, he hopes that he will be able to dump it all in the toilet bowl later at home without waking up Luhan who will probably be asleep.

Baekhyun blows raspberries, his eyes still shut and hand squeezing the thigh beneath him just a bit harder.

“Who, Chanyeol? Pff, that guy is straighter than a ruler.”

Yixing spills a laugh then and cocks his brow, a bit amused, suddenly and vividly recalling the sight of a drunken Chanyeol being more than happy to receive a lap dance from an ever drunker Baekhyun during one of their escalated nights out. It was one of those nights during which the world didn’t seem so bad, after midnight, through Yixing’s intoxicated eyes looking more colourful than grey with all the morning stars dancing before him.

He pokes his friend’s cheek, laughing at the memory.

“I think Chanyeol’s a _bit_ more curved than a ruler, Baek.”

He guesses carelessly that Baekhyun doesn’t even remember that night for although his friend is everything but a lightweight, he tends to overdo things and gulp down cheap shots like a runner at a marathon until his limbs either give in or end up wrapped around some horny stranger. He does seem to remember, though, and he snorts out loud in a rare moment of perceivable bitterness.

There is something there, hiding behind that protective grin which he plasters on right after. Yixing doesn’t get it, and neither does he like it; Baekhyun is his ray of sunlight, after all, his source of joy and all free of charge. He doesn’t deserve to fret over anything, least of all another guy, and this is the truth that has Yixing dip his hand in the box of noodles without even thinking. Reaching for one soaked with ice cream, he drops his own smile and throws the food right at Baekhyun’s face.

It was just another stupid impulse, and the ultimate reaction is yet to come.

“What the…”

Baekhyun sits up straight, staring right at him with a befuddled expression. Ice cream runs down his eyebrows and nose but the noodle stays glued to his forehead, the overall mess creating an eerie resemblance to one of Luhan’s equally eerie paintings. It sounds quite funny, that unspoken comparison, but Yixing isn’t laughing and neither is Baekhyun.

He blinks a few times as if to understand what just happened, despite the state of his own greasy face looking rather worried for his friend’s already questionable sanity.

“Why did you do that?”

His eyes are round and his mouth hangs agape, but there is no anger hiding among those soft, dainty features of his. He isn’t like Luhan whose smile is either reassuring or frightening with no greyscale whatsoever, and his lips curling ever so slightly is all Yixing needs to continue with his impromptu theatrics.

He speaks calmly with a face as stoic as the one that popped into his brain only minutes ago, quietly bracing himself for whatever punishment might follow.

“You're ugly.” He pokes Baekhyun’s forehead lightly, dragging a finger down between his friend’s eyebrows while leaning in closer, whispering dramatically, “Why would I ever wanna date your ugly ass?”

There is a gasp and a pause before Baekhyun shoves his hand away, removing the noodle from his own forehead. Bringing it to his mouth to suck on it seductively, he crawls a bit closer, maintaining eye contact. Ice cream drips from his lips and he licks them, his eyes growing dark, yet full of mischief and foreshadowing trouble.

“You’re a dead man, Zhang Yixing. Dead.”

Chaos ensues.

Yixing might not be very fond of tickling, but he loves what is happening nonetheless. Squeals mix with laughter when his friend starts abusing his sides and neck without inhibitions, the words “ _Somebody save me!_ ” getting muffled by the pillow when Baekhyun pins him to the bed and growls.

He loves it, the fact that nothing exists in this moment save for fingers around his wrists and teeth biting into his neck and even ass. He loves that Baekhyun is almost as crazy as him but in a completely different and much better way, how their friendly fights and lighthearted wrestling has him sweat and laugh until tears course down his cheeks in joy and exhaustion.

It helps him forget how miserable he is, what a complete wreck he has turned out to be. If there is anyone on Earth who can reach into his mind and press pause for even the fewest of seconds, it is Baekhyun, and Yixing will always be thankful for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting this so late! I hope you still like this, because this is just the beginning. Next chapter will be aaaaall Sehun's, so don't worry! This is first and foremost a hunlay-fic, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

“Why did you throw away my lighter?”

Yixing jumps at the sound of that voice and chokes on smoke when an all too familiar face appears right before his own. He really doesn’t want to deal with this now; Sehun staring down at him with that taxidermied face, standing one foot away, yet close enough to cause a sigh.

“I didn't.”

He reflects on whether or not he should take a leap over the railing just to avoid any further inquisition, yet failing to do much but tremble when sparks from his cigarette burn his own hand. While he wants to take Sehun’s indomitable impassivity as a challenge and stare right back, he finds himself lowering his head faster than it takes for his coughing to die down.

“I _didn’t_ ,” he repeats a few seconds too late, squeezing his stick between fingers that have gone numb.

Sehun just cocks his brow.

It isn’t until now that Yixing fully realises that Sehun is almost one head taller, and suddenly, the distance between those dead eyes and his own feels greater than the sixty floors separating himself from the sidewalk. He wonders briefly when his palms got all sweaty, in a nervous haze once again considering to just throw himself over the edge of this godforsaken skyscraper.

Sehun, on the other hand, is still gazing down at him in silence.

“I said I didn’t throw away your stupid lighter,” Yixing eventually murmurs in an annoyed, yet nervous fit, sucking hard on his cigarette as if there is actually a chance to develop cancer in a minute and avert whatever might come next. “I dropped it.”

“Intentionally.”

He looks up, glaring, with his gaze alone trying to burn holes into coworker’s forehead which is ugly and not at all beautifully revealed by that perfect comma hair made undone by the wind. Sehun’s face holds no visible contempt, but neither is there any trace of that smile which was there when they met on this rooftop only days ago.

Yixing shudders, turning back to face the view. The ground down below looks awfully comfortable.

“So what if I dropped it?” he snarls without looking, all sense of politeness gone as if there was actually any there even to begin with. “You look rich enough, anyway.”

Sehun doesn't laugh or even chuckle lightly, but steps closer determinedly, trespassing the comfort zone. Yixing recoils against his own will.

“I gave it to you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

No words follow and the fire dies out, having Yixing light another cigarette while thinking that if Mr. Kim would oust him because of unscheduled breaks that are far too long and laughably many, he would already have done so long ago. Not that Yixing cares about his job, but excuses are to him awfully satisfying no matter the occasion. They are what his life has consisted of, after all, ever since the day on which he comforted Luhan for having cheated on him instead of walking away with his hand holding Baekhyun's.

Sehun breaks the silence eventually by lighting a cigarette for himself with a sigh, positioning himself a bit farther from Yixing who is still, just like always, in the mood for neither conversation nor company. The lighter he uses doesn’t look new or even expensive, and it isn’t as shiny as the one which broken pieces for some unspoken reason still remain in Yixing’s pocket.

“You don’t really strike me as an office guy.”

The words are sudden and sound too much like a question, having Yixing retaliate much faster than he really wants to.

“What do I _strike you as_ , then?”

He tells himself that he has got no interest whatsoever in making friends with this guy, no matter how many times that ugly face keeps creeping into his mind at the most inconvenient of times. Sehun has, without doubt, noticed it already; his neurotic coworkers ungrounded aversion towards him, the way his incessant staring gets responded to with glares and sighs too dramatic to be coming from a man who is perfectly sane and not proven crazy.

On Sehun’s lips, however, is now that smile again, devoid of accusation, yet without much warmth, and he hums before answering, moving closer by just a step.

“You strike me as someone who has given up his every dream for some farfetched reason he can’t even understand himself. You keep suffering all by yourself without letting anyone in, cursing everyone around you, yet not as much as you curse yourself. You’re miserable, but you take pride in it, stuffing yourself with prescribed drugs when you think no one is looking– Yes, of course I’ve seen it, everyone has. I might be new to the 48th floor but I don’t need to snoop around to notice you slip half a package of pills into your morning coffee. People talk about it, anyway, unless you didn’t know already.”

His smile grows wider and he takes yet another step, his shoulder almost brushing against Yixing down whose back sweat has started running in cold rivulets.

“You like the pain and the grossed out glances sent you from all around the office, because it’s an excuse for you to feel sorry for yourself. You _want_ to suffer, because you have lived your whole life believing that you deserve it.”

He retreats eventually, with an unbefitting chuckle running a hand through his own fringe for it to fall back over his head which is way too proportionate to his body for Yixing to feel comfortable around it.

“Or to put it more simply,” he laughs, clouds escaping the corners of those fine, grinning lips when he takes another sip of smoke, “You don’t strike me as an office guy – you strike me as an artist.”

There it is; the bathos, surprisingly welcomed.

Yixing wants to scoff in response, but what leaves him sounds more strangled than controlled. Sehun is just a stranger, he tells himself, still with no control over his own treacherous sweat glands; he is an unimportant wiseacre who cannot possibly be holding any relevant information, a prying besserwisser who just happens to have won the gene pool lottery. He doesn’t know that Yixing is in pain, that the spiral that is his life started going downwards substantially on the day his mother first sent him away overnight, leaving him with strangers making good money out of recorded tapes that are as illegal as they are gross. Sehun doesn’t know why Yixing relies on medication or what nasty memories replay before his eyes whenever Mr. Kim grabs his ass as a joke, triggering him into reliving his childhood nightmares all over again.

Sehun doesn’t know anything. All those words are just nonsense. Yet, Yixing does nothing to expose him.

“An artist, huh?” He coughs into his hand instead, in an attempt to ignore the rest of that monologue mimicking the chuckle that had him shiver earlier. His feigned insouciance remains, of course. “And why is that?”

He is still staring over the edge, scanning the skyline in order to avoid any eye contact when Sehun nudges his shoulder without permission. It burns more than the bleached filter scorching his lips with each new inhale, yet he remains passive, waiting for the sequent fever to leave alongside the guy.

Sehun laughs as if the world hasn’t suddenly started burning.

“Yes, an artist. All those cute little drawings?”

Yixing freezes, having had enjoyed the sudden cooling breeze rummaging through Sehun’s well-kempt hair be it not for the prospects of having been caught red handed.

“What?” he almost stutters, not wanting to admit it.

It must, furthermore, have been a mondegreen; Yixing doodles aren’t cute, not even remotely so. They are macabre, if anything, but perhaps there lies some beauty in that.

“The ones that are all over your desk.” Sehun dons a knowing smirk and moves yet a little closer, his invasion of private space, however, for once passing by unnoticed by Yixing who pretends to know nothing about any drawings. “ _Death to the Oh Family_?”

There is a pause, a one-sided awkwardness, and cheeks heating up, flushed pink by embarrassment. Yixing doesn’t know with what words to respond, how to handle the knowledge of that someone else than Minseok must have seen the all too detailed ballpoint depictions of the CEO and his family disembowelled and eaten by pigs on antibiotics, driven by rapacity. He doesn’t know why the thought of Sehun having seen the doodles unsettles him deeply, not when Sehun’s opinions are as insignificant as Yixing’s every childhood dream.

Sehun is just some unimportant new guy, having possibly been demoted from the 52nd floor. A failure, in other words, no one important.

Still, Yixing prays to Luhan’s portrait of himself for help to not stutter, made too dumb by his own instability to draw the connection between the ‘Oh’ in Sehun’s name and his alleged previous employment on the 52nd floor. He prays, but Sehun’s towering presence seems to be blocking out those transcendent waves, like a sweltering afternoon heat creating a thick wall of indiscernible, yet impenetrable sweat between Yixing’s body and that painting at home.

Sehun remains silent, like a reporter outside the camera’s field of view cornering his victim until a confession is left as the only escape, and Yixing laughs in lieu of fighting when that invisible wall seems to crush him against the skyscraper’s barrier.

“Oh, my drawings,” he mumbles then with a strangled chuckle, the torrid fumes of his cigarette filter burning stinging his nose when he sucks on the stub in between the forced words “Those, yeah, I… Yes.”

He looks straight into the sun instead of at Sehun and coughs right at it, tossing his cigarette away but only after it has left lasting scars on his already yellowing fingertips. He wonders for a second if Sehun has been sneaking around his desk, and the latter smiles as if knowing Yixing’s mind, his eyes, however, as usual, reflecting neither accusation nor warmth.

“What about me?” he asks, the plastic smile still there and proving the aptness of Yixing’s many nicknames for him; _a taxidermist’s wet dream_ , _stoicism embodied._ “You want me dead too?”

Yixing wonders. Does he?

 

_Death to the Oh family! Bring down the system! Slaughter the capitalists! Buy Baekhyun more ice cream! Kill yourself! Make Luhan happy! Fix the water leakage in the bathroom! Stop drinking! Take a shot! Buy a car! Stop washing spiders down the plughole! Apologise to your mother! Death to the Oh family! Bring down the system! Kill yourself! **Die! Die! Die!**_

 

The intrusive thoughts flood Yixing’s mind and he tears his gaze away from the sun, squints down at the faraway sidewalk as white spots seem to be hurting not only his corneas, but his brain, his throat, and his trembling fingers as well. It must be just his tinnitus acting up that has him unsure whether the city just fell entirely silent or not, and the constantly nagging voice of Luhan playing in the back of mind has him whisk the destructive thoughts away like one would ignore some annoying old relative.

This must be one of his better days, it seems.

Perhaps Sehun repeated his question during the seconds or maybe minutes that just passed. Yixing wouldn’t know; as much as he cannot understand why he doesn’t actively wish for Sehun’s death, he cannot remember making out the other’s voice from inside the whirlwind that are the ones in his own head.

It’s true that he wouldn’t mind finding Sehun fired for just being, or perhaps paralysed by having fallen down the faux marble stairs from 48th to 1st. He probably wouldn’t, however, personally make sure that Sehun died unless such a sin would result in not only one death, but two; his own as well.

“Just because you happen to share their last name doesn’t mean you’re one of them.”

He mumbles it on a sudden, unsure why he even thought it to begin with. He doesn't want to admit it, what he just admitted, that Sehun isn't nearly as bad as the people they both, in fact, work under.

It is probably just his inner self-defense mechanisms saving him the trouble of having to explain why he hates the one before him without any clear-cut reason. Yixing doesn't even know Sehun, and he doesn't _know_ , but when he gathers the courage to look at him, finally, he doesn't miss the way those strong features have scrunched up in an indecipherable grimace.

_Hah_ , he almost slips, for a moment rejoicing over having caused some pain, of having possibly dug something up from beneath those layers of clean, hardened skin. Maybe he is onto something, he thinks with a grin before realisation hits him like a stone to his temple.

 

…oh.

… _oh._

 

He recalls Minseok’s words uttered weeks ago when Sehun first caught his attention downstairs, the ones that shouldn’t be true, but have no reason not to be. His grin fades then after just a second of existence, his lips slightly parting only to spill awkwardly pronounced syllables testifying his lability.

“Or is it, you know,” he coughs, embarrassed and uneased, yet surprisingly curious given Sehun’s sudden change of expression. “Is it true that you’re, like… related to the CEO?”

The question is rather innocent, or so he believes, so little does he expect a scoff in return. It sounds bitter, in a way, like that of a wrongly convicted being asked about his crime, and the following sigh reveals nothing.

“It's just what people say,” Sehun sighs, his face remaining wrapped in that grimace which should be unflattering but still doesn't do much to weaken his attraction. “I'm not.”

He lights another cigarette for himself as he leans quite graciously over the rooftop barrier, shutting his eyes whilst facing the sun.

“I’m not related to him. Not really.”

His eyelashes cast shadows over well-structured cheekbones that might or might not have been sculptured by some deity, and Yixing squints at him now that eye contact has been broken. Perhaps he is really just the Devil in disguise or an infidel apostle sent to mess with sinners, thus approaching Yixing just to slowly prepare him for the fumes of Hell. Perhaps the CEO is the almighty God who abuses his power for fun and for wealth, thus having Sehun deny their kinship.

Yixing wants to know if his guess is true. He really, really does.

“What do you mean ‘ _not really_ ’?” he asks, continuing to squint at the one whose eyelids are still resting and whose cigarette is turning into ash on his fingers. “What are you even?”

Sehun surprises him by breaking into laughter, his now crescent eyes not matching the personality which Yixing has assigned him based on nothing, really. The ashes leave the stick then and soar through the air, like the remains of a slave who can leave the Oh skyscraper only in the form of dust cast over the edge of its rooftop.

“ _What am I?_ ” Sehun imitates, his upper teeth showing in either amusement or hostility, his eyes, however, falling shut once again. “Human? Alien? Employed? Adopted?”

He laughs yet again, even louder this time. The sun gets replaced by a giant bulb.

“I’m nothing, and you’re just miserable. That’s all we are, Yixing. Nothing, yet miserable.”

Yixing doesn’t know why the sound of it hurts, but it spreads through his body like disease nonetheless; much like sharpened fingernails scraping against one’s eardrums, it invites harsh echoes of those painfully true words to penetrate his mind and compete with the tinnitus and the shrill ringing of his phone’s alarm clock. _Yixing?_ He frowns, still staring at Sehun who looks… sad.

Sehun looks sad.

“Xing?”

_Sad._

“Bunny?”

It could be the painkillers mixed with this morning’s vodka, or Yixing’s schizophrenic tendencies that have him zoom out for a minute. He wonders despite his usual indifference if Sehun’s face, too, could be studied for a portrait, rendered as grotesquely as the one of himself hanging slightly askew above his and Luhan’s bed at home. He wonders briefly if Sehun’s inner demons could be caught by a brush and dabbed onto a canvas, immortalised by some artist with a penchant for the unsightly. He wonders a lot, but he comes to no conclusion before his thoughts get cut short by a hand on his shoulder.

“Yixing?”

Sehun has stopped smiling, and the world is back to normal.

“Are you okay?”

It’s peculiar, really, how Yixing feels more like a dog than a person when a hand appears open as if offering him to grab it. Like a well-trained puppy, he does it without questioning, reaching out to put his hand in Sehun’s as if skinship between them isn’t weird at all. He needs to rest, he tells himself in defence; call in sick, have some water, wash the drugs from his system. That is exactly what his weary mind needs, yes; for him call in sick, have some water, wait for Luhan to come home, not the other way around–

“Yixing?”

–make some dinner, apologise, call Baekhyun, go to sleep–

“Can you hear me?”

–have a shot, fix the leakage, tie a noose, wait for Luhan–

“ _Yixing_.”

He snaps out of it, forgetting, for a moment only caring about how the sun looks a bit darker when viewed through Sehun’s eyes that are reflecting not only that, but the skyline as well.

“I’m… okay,” he mumbles, at loss for more words whilst Sehun just looks at him with a face as blank as on the first day he saw it. “I’m okay,” he repeats, still holding onto that hand, his body all numb and his mind even number.

Maybe there is a candid camera somewhere, waiting to catch him doing something stupid. The thought of it actually excites him enough to have him wish that it is true and for it to succeed; perhaps he could use its gathered proof as currency paying for entry into the asylum since early retirement sounds nicer than it should.

He readies himself to let go of that hand in order to step onto the barrier and aim for the sidewalk, but his body won’t move and his fingers are frozen. Towered above him, Sehun is still staring.

He has used his cigarette to put a hole in Yixing’s palm, now waiting for the response which is yet to be revealed.

It isn’t until he presses it deeper that Yixing notices the pain, the smell of vaporised tar and his own flesh burnt black. It is excruciating, he acknowledges when Sehun twists the cigarette until it dies, yet he doesn’t flinch even one little bit. He is floating midair, not really knowing what is real, even less what is happening or why he lets it happens. He is but a lifeless fly on a sticky piece of paper, too tired to mind the fact that his body is broken, his soul condemned.

It hurts, but he doesn't care.

Sehun steps back when the last wisp of smoke has dispersed and the burnt out stub gets caught by a breeze. He scoffs again, just like before, as if bitter over something known only by him.

“You really are crazy,” he says then with a smile, and that is when Yixing finally reacts.

_He burnt me. My hand, it–_

The silence fills with an ungodly scream and he falls to his knees, clutching his palm. Confused and in pain, he tries to rise only for his muscles to betray him when he needs them the most, having him pulled back down to the scorching concrete.

Hot tears drip from his eyes to his wound, his screams seemingly incessant, at first.

“ _What– What is wrong with– It hurts, why did you– Why–_ ”

He gets cut off by a hush and grabbed by the wrist by Sehun who pulls him forcibly to stand. Despite having told himself countless times over that no other human will ever scare him again, he finds himself fearing whatever might come next. Be it further damage or humiliation of some kind; there is only so much he can take in one day without running home wasted or passing out at Baekhyun’s, in either case throwing up while unconscious because of pains that are too much, even for him.

Perhaps it is just his current state of mind, though, that has him take the expression Sehun dons as intimidating. The latter is no longer laughing or scoffing, his face now back to its usual state. His features are safe from wrinkles and cracks caused by plastic smiles that look robotic, if anything, and although his fingers are wrapped way too tightly around Yixing’s thin wrist, he is pulling quite gently, away from the edge.

Yixing can't even trust his own perception, in the end; for all his crazy self knows, Sehun might not even have burnt him at all.

He tries to shake it all off, pain and fear and tears alike. He accepts it, finally, feeling surprisingly relieved, that his own demise won’t be part of today when the grip on his wrist loosens significantly and Sehun turns to look at him blankly.

The words are spoken in a tone so soft that they could might as well have been pronounced by Luhan.

“Let’s go back downstairs. Mr. Kim might fire you if he catches you on another break– Oh, and you should get that hand of yours cleaned and bandaged.”

It could be a smile, what Sehun’s lips do next, one that isn’t warm but at least not contrived. Yixing catches it, he imagines, at least, as his own wet gaze gets caught by the other’s through which he now, just as always, cannot see through.

“My hand is fine,” he lies without reason. “I don’t need it cleaned.”

“Yes, yes, you do. Come on, I’ll help you.”

Somehow, those words are of great comfort.

He tells himself that it was all a dream, hallucinations given birth to by stress and medication. He often burns himself with cigarettes, anyway, so what reason does he have to believe that the spontaneous assault he thought he just suffered wasn’t made up in his head, but actually real? Sehun might have the looks of a sociopath, of someone who would revel in the sight of others suffering, but even Yixing finds it ridiculous to accuse someone who is practically a stranger of having done something so sadistic as burning holes with a stub.

_It wasn’t your fault_ , someone whispers in his head when Sehun slips an arm around his waist. _It wasn’t your fault, bunny. It was all mine._

Yes, he is sure now – he must have been imagining it all. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, after all, that the 48th floor’s biggest loser, Zhang Yixing, mistook one messed up reality for another.

 

 

Sehun’s hand is on the small of his back when he reaches the office and gets greeted by a slap.

“It’s been five hours!” Mr. Kim is shouting, spitting right at him because of forgotten frappucinos and neglected work. “ _Five hours!_ ” is repeated over and over until Yixing squints at the clock in disbelief, his hurting cheek and palm all forgotten as he realises, shocked, that Mr. Kim is right.

Five hours.

Sehun is already out of sight when he turns around to ask what is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how happy your comments and kudos make me, thank you! ♡


	8. Chapter 8

04:37 are the red, blinking numbers shown by the alarm clock when Yixing wakes up all covered in sweat the morning after he met Sehun. He can't remember what nightmares he had or if there even were any dreams at all, still he remains paralysed where he lies as if something will pop up and kill him if he moves.

He isn't sure why he suddenly fears it, the prospects of getting dragged down to Hell or some similar place, the mere memory of his human form all wiped out at the moment his throat gets ripped open by objects that are blunt, yet piercing through his skin and carotid. Images of Sehun grabbing his wrist replays in his mind as he realises that he is clutching his own hand with a strength much unfamiliar, and that taxidermied face, that plastic smile devoid of any warmth etches itself onto his very being like some infernal parasite having sworn to break him.

Eventually able to relax enough to turn his head or at least fool himself into thinking that he does, he finds another hand on his chest—one much more gentle, or so he believes—with its lean fingers resting comfortably along his glistening, much too protruding ribs. Letting out a prolonged breath that has been kept in his lungs for only God knows how long, Yixing detects the familiar scent, the peculiar feeling of safety brought by his tedious, yet comfortably numbing life and the mismatch of furniture from thrift stores and the clearance department at their local IKEA respectively.

“Lulu…” he gasps, surprisingly relieved to find that someone is there to protect him from harm. His boyfriend yawns then and flashes him a smile as though absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.

“‘Morning, cutie,” Luhan mumbles sleepily and shuffles closer like he always does, with languid movements tightening their bubble which holds morning breath and heavy limbs, but also a double duvet reflecting those weak, golden rays sneaking in through the blinds. The portrait above them stares down at the scene with bottomless eyes conveying spite, perhaps amusement, but the drowsy one’s eyelids are, as apart from Yixing’s, still too heavy for him to notice it laughing.

The spirit of slumber, or whatever power is in charge of sleep, permeates the room once again when Luhan decides that it is too early to rise. However remaining entangled with Yixing beneath too much fabric that is way too thick given last night’s marathon of refilling their portable heater with liquefied petroleum gas, he keeps his boyfriend from following in his steps as their shared warmth starts to resemble a fever.

The feeling returns then, pins Yixing against the damp mattress in the form of some wicked incubus having claimed his pelvis before planting its seed inside his disabled body. It hisses into his ear whilst preparing to penetrate, with the amplified voices of all the people he knows screaming at him from where it sits on top.

He keeps his eyes open, tries to hold on to reality.  
  


_Where my Yixing, where’s my favourite secretary? I’m glad you could make it home early tonight. You don’t strike me as an office guy, you strike me as an artist. I’m sorry, Lulu._ _ Have you cheated yet? We’d make an adorable couple. I know that you never liked my art. Why did you throw my lighter away? You’re better than he ever will be. _ _I never meant for them to die, I promise! I’m sorry, Sehun, I’ll  make another scar! Where do I hang it? Right next to yours? Such a pretty little boy deserves a thorough treatment._ _I’m so sorry, bunny. You’re a dead man, Zhang Yixing. Why won’t you remember? You’re dead to me. I’m so, so sorry, I won’t forget again–_

  
An ungodly scream is what saves him, in the end. The noises, however, are apparently not Luhan’s.

“Xing?”

Perhaps it is just the alarm playing tricks, like that time it kept tormenting him with its extended arms forcing his own to bend back until his scapulae got fractured and two of his ribs broke.

“Bunny?”

He ended up on a walk that one morning, stumbling awkwardly past the old abandoned railroad on his way to first shake hands with Mr. Kim. It is functioning again—he believes, at least—since the government has deemed pollution as problematic as if not less than the far below acceptable minimum wage.

“Yixing? Are you okay?”

It does no matter what feel awfully familiar, like a memory stuck between a déjà vu and a flashback, unable to fully present itself before him. Maybe this is why he lingers in paralysis in spite of that imaginary incubus having finally left his body to bother someone else.

“Yixing? Can you hear me? I can’t believe this is happening again!”

He actually hears it quite clearly, his boyfriend’s voice trying to bring out of him any proof of sentience whatsoever. He can even feel the sharp fingertips tapping against his chest like raindrops on a hard, yet rotting wood board, but it isn’t until the alarm clock stops chiming that he manages to utter anything in response.

“I’m… okay,” is the unsettling finale to the stream of far too familiar words, followed by a one, maybe two-second comfortable silence.

He exhales, alleviated. Luhan sighs.

“Stop scaring me like that, Xing!” the latter chides, clutching his own chest as if that is where the incubus was sitting, as though he truly understands the uttermost panic brought by night terrors that don’t care about time. “You know how worried I get when you stop breathing like that, especially in the morning! Didn’t I tell Dr. Kim to go easy with the tranquillizers? And God, look at the time! Weren’t you supposed to leave at thirty? Mr. Oh is going to fire you if you keep arriving late, didn’t you tell me so yesterday? Up with you now, bunny! There, hurry–”

Perhaps relief—or an unforeseen breakdown—is why Yixing throws himself at Luhan on a sudden, removing the duvet and attacking him with his mouth, sucking and biting on lips and clavicles only travel rapidly down to mouth at an erection. Luhan is usually hard when he wakes but has long since stopped suggesting lazy morning sex, and so does Yixing catch him off-guard with his fingers and tongue already working him towards completion. Struggling at first since the clock shows 07:48 and in fact not three hours earlier—04:37—he lets out some half-hearted protests before succumbing.

Yixing, however, doesn’t feel what he should when their positions are switched and he gets to enter his boyfriend—not when the wound on his palm is still there, the burning hole put there by Sehun yesterday. He knows that he should be moaning or grunting, gasping against lips that are spilling not only reassuring words, but dirty ones as well. He knows all too well that he should give something in return, at least when his boyfriend lets him take him without switching, yet does he seem to have been robbed of his own voice. He can’t do anything but try without succeeding, and although he _feels_ Luhan when the latter comes, his own orgasm never truly arrives.

Absurd encounters on some skyscraper rooftop are all he can think about despite his ungrounded aversion to recalling those, and Sehun’s face is all his mind can render. Rolling over and off of Luhan whose long-awaited orgasm left him physically satisfied, yet with a worried frown slapped onto his face, Yixing lies there on his back whilst thinking, not caring about nor even realising the fact that he will be late for work even if rushes there now, naked with a boner.

Luhan thinks that he is ashamed—for good reasons—but what Yixing wonders in this bizarre moment isn’t why his dick is as useless as his persona and his skill. What fills his mind is but a question born after rewinding the tapes and fast-forwarding them twice, a seemingly harmless, very normal question that nevertheless has him shudder and perspire;

Why does that face—Sehun’s taxidermied face which reflected such sadness after him stating that he is _nothing_ —suddenly give birth to a bit of unplaceable recognition?

Yixing rarely trusts his own perception, even less his laughable goldfish memory, and while he suspects that this question will have flown out the window as soon as Mr. Kim scolds him for being late, he _knows_ at this moment that something isn’t right. The current fear causing him to clutch the sheets will be long gone and forever forgotten as he sprints down the faux marble stairs to fetch some obnoxious order as retribution for his crimes, yet he can’t help but let it devour him now. Sehun is familiar—that much is sure—but is it just the product of insanity or is Yixing’s undeveloped, yet unsettling epiphany based on even a chunk of reality?

He can’t decode it, and he wonders—does he _want_ to?

Twitching only slightly when Luhan grabs his hurting hand, he does his best to not break entirely. While it would usually feel nice to call in sick with a reason, he now finds himself longing for a distraction. Be it the agonising thirty-minute bus ride to work or the piles of documents waiting to get covered in doodles; anything sounds better than dawdling over the features of some ugly, handsome semi-stranger and the impact they have on the 48th floor’s biggest loser. Deeming the day destroyed before it starts does moreover not seem wise, even to Yixing, and so he forces his pieces together and seeks refuge in the anticipation of at least exchanging some gossip with Minseok.

Gentle kisses coat his finger with saliva and the warmth of Luhan’s lips actually calms him substantially. Soon able to curl his own without it hurting, he watches his boyfriend who is examining his wound with eyes that are squinting beneath dripping eyelashes, yet revealing no suspicion whatsoever.

“I wish you'd tell me what happened,” Luhan sighs as he abandons Yixing’s damaged palm only to caress his cheek which is wet yet cold. It is sincere, as always, the worry that never fully leaves his eyes, but Yixing only sighs in response before rising from the bed, leaving his boyfriend wondering.

He really wishes that someone would tell _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short that it should be considered a crime, BUT i feel like this scene needs to be separated from the others. Next chapter will be the real start of sexing! Please comment your thoughts on this so far ♡


	9. Chapter 9

Eleven hours later or so, Yixing wakes up slightly hungover due to the cocktail of prozac and vodka he had for lunch. Lifting his head just enough to scan his surroundings, he frowns immediately when slapped with the realisation of that it isn’t the newly washed sheets at home that have printed his cheek red with stripes, but his stupid desk which is now, just as always, buried in work. The golden letters on the office wall stare back when he sends them a glare as if they are to blame, but they remain as nauseatingly silent as ever, deriding the 48th floor’s biggest loser without a sound.

 

A puddle of drool has smudges his little doodles, soaked the documents and ruined some signatures. Sehun’s poorly drawn head is, of course, still chopped off and his body minced, but the edges of his neck look more soft than jagged. It actually looks a bit prettier like that, Yixing admits as he crumples the paper and aims for the bin, although missing by a metre—perhaps he should actually pay more attention to Luhan whose paintings might at times seem immaculate and carefully conceived, but whose techniques require but belief in oneself and a sincere fearlessness of everything filthy. There is no method when it comes to Luhan’s work, no settled procedure or systematic plan. The artist whose pyjamas is covered in paint, whose socks are fuzzy but suit him perfectly, cares nought about fine lines or the beauty from within. His ambitions are high but not by any means perfect; the future painted for himself by himself is as abstract and chaotic as his portrait of Yixing, yet it can't be helped that the latter feels awed.

 

A sigh gets lost among the piles of wet documents as Yixing admits irrevocable defeat—the office slave will never reach that level of self-fulfillment.

 

 

 

 

Another few but long hours later, Yixing is still not nearly half through his work. Squinting at the clock which shows way past dinner time, he pretends for a moment that the digits are dancing only to get dragged out of reverie by his desk neighbour’s voice.

 

“Still here?”

 

Minseok yawns with a grin after he asks, his head still resting against his own tidied desk. It is always quite empty in comparison to Yixing’s, meticulously organised and with a spotless coffee mug placed neatly on a coaster on the right hand side of his own pile of work. It is always the same, always perfectly balanced, a place for sore eyes to linger when fed up with the disorder of everything else. It is yet another thing for the office slave to envy, even if Minseok is the opposite of Luhan whose private workspace reflects the his motto— _chaos must be the rule by which I live, lest the orderly masses might dull my sparkle!_

 

Yixing suspects that he got it from Baekhyun.

 

He doesn’t reply to Minseok’s question but nods sluggishly while adjusting his position. Groaning unintentionally when his lower back cracks, he curses himself for his previous nap—had he not been sleeping for hours instead of working, postponing his thirty-minute bus ride back home, had he probably been in bed now, hiding beneath the double duvet while inhaling the traces of aromatic softener. Had he not tried to make the day less insufferable by nibbling on pills as one would eat cookies, had he maybe even been able to orgasm later when penetrating Luhan or the other way around.

 

Before his eyes when he stares at the wall are white and grey spots, intricate cobwebs drifting aimlessly by. His neck hurts more than it usually does in spite of the painkillers he snorted before napping, and the wound on his palm looks rather purulent and nasty. One small band aid was all he deemed necessary when succumbing to Sehun’s advice to take care of the burn, and seeing as it now emits an odour which is weak yet nonetheless putrid, he regrets his decision to drink the disinfectant instead of actually following the instructions on the bottle.

 

He examines his hand, still wondering what happened. The dull pain is as eerily familiar as he vaguely remembers Sehun’s face to have been, but any memory threatening to come back slips right past him when his thoughts begin to wander. While the fear which he woke up with—the one reborn by that terrible déjá vu—did, as expected, get replaced by the horror of greeting a furious Mr. Kim when arriving late, Yixing does still feel far from relieved. While he _knows_ that he doesn’t know Sehun and that the idea of a doppelgänger is laughable, if anything, he _knew_ this morning that those features are familiar. While he _knows_ that the time is now nearing midnight and that a majority of his coworkers have already left, he also _knows_ that Sehun is watching him from behind, staring at him with that plastic smile from across the office where he sits with his little notepad, writing down the loser’s every movement and possibly even reading his mind–

 

“Here, let me take care of that.”

 

Minseok’s words catch Yixing off-guard, yet he reaches out his hand immediately as though his muscles know exactly what to do. Waiting patiently for the pain to go away, he shuts his eyes and pushes Sehun away while inhaling the hot, sultry air of the office. He waits, convinced that his desk neighbour will help him.

 

Which he does.

 

Minseok’s hand isn’t even touching his own, but hovering just a centimetre above the hurting area. Yet, despite the air in between, his fingers seem to kerb the pain while lingering steadily for a minute, maybe two. It leaves Yixing slowly like venom sucked out of an otherwise clean wound, evaporating into steam before floating away out of sight and allotting each other miserable worker with an equal amount of phantom pain.

 

Yixing smiles sheepishly in response, as thankful as always as he opens his eyes.

 

“I’m here, too, when you need me,” Minseok says then, before pulling back into napping position with a smile looking anything but forced on his lips.

 

Yixing looks at his scar and sighs.

 

“You always are.”

 

Sometimes, he wonders how the hell Minseok does it.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t even care at this point.

 

It is way past midnight—two o’clock, maybe three at most—and the piles of documents seem to be towering above him even more than they did a few hours ago. Perhaps there is some obnoxious ghost around, a poor past worker who died in this office who keeps adding more to Yixing’s inbox in a desperate hope of gaining a new, dead friend. Perhaps Yixing is just hallucinating again, stuck in a nightmare of bleached white paper and pretentious watermarks that don’t mean anything. Perhaps he himself is just as real as the acquaintance he for a moment thought he used to have with the 48th floor’s most recent hire.

 

He isn’t even tired, he whispers into his hand as though the already healing wound on his palm will absorb those words and make them more real. He isn’t tired, just a bit exhausted, that ridiculous assertion fed by himself through lies throughout the day since Mr. Kim forced him to walk his chihuahua on the way to fetch the unavoidable “latte”.

 

Yixing’s eyes begin to tear up automatically as recalls his punishment which is by far the worst he has received so far.

 

Decaf coffee at forty-eight degrees sharp, with twenty-one pumps of sugar-free vanilla cream. A splash of soy, double-blended, made with whole milk and with extra whip. “ _Zero percent,_ ” was repeated twice by his boss, “ _Zero percent foam, or else I’ll demote you_ ,” topped with a thin layer of steamed lemonade and three and a half cubes of hand crushed ice. The young barista ended up throwing it at Yixing’s face before shouting at Mr. Fluffer that “ _dogs aren’t allowed!_ ”, and Mr. Fluffer, the chihuahua, didn’t appreciate the scare.

 

It made the top of the list of embarrassing moments—apologizing to the part-timer before chasing after the offended puppy whose tiny paws left trails of coffee—and Yixing thought as he lumbered back up the forty-eight stairs that it isn’t Oh Sehun or even the goddamned CEO who is the Devil in disguise, but Mr. Kim Jongdae.

 

He exhales now, shakily, while wiping his own tears that are running cold down his cheeks that are equally so due to lack of sleep and insufficient nutrition. He hates this place, hates Mr. Kim, hates the broken air conditioner, hates his sturdy, old ergonomic desk. He hates it all, in this particular moment maybe even more than he hates himself, yet he cannot bring himself to–

 

“Leave.”

 

He looks up from his desk only to turn back immediately, his eyes bloodshot and twitching madly because of yet another unwelcome distraction.

 

Of course it is him. It is always him.

 

“Go away,” is all he responds with whilst attempting to hide his pale, swollen face with fingers that are stained by admiral blue ink and burned by his own many cigarette stumps. His snivelled words do, however, seem to have no effect whatsoever on Sehun who keeps standing beside him like some shameless vulture waiting for the pathetic creature to turn into a carrion—or alternatively, like a fly buzzing around a corpse.

 

“You've been here since morning.”

 

Yixing looks up then, no longer caring about trying to conceal the aftermath of his tears. Not when Sehun’s face holds that insufferable insouciance which isn’t at all matching the tiny hint of concern that is for some absurd reason there in his voice.

 

“So have you,” he can’t help but murmur, squinting sceptically through his wet eyelashes. He is too aroused by the sudden idea of proving the brat to be a hypocrite to refrain, to consider the fact that he also just proved that he has, in fact, been noticing Sehun throughout the day.

 

The latter shrugs, completely undefeated. His plastic façade remains unbroken.

 

“I'm a hardworking guy.”

 

“And I’m not?”

 

A chuckle follows and that is when Sehun truly breaks the bubble, steps over the invisible border and puts his hand on Yixing’s shoulder. Something is there now, plastered onto his face, but the way his eyebrows are raised a bit higher than normal and the way his lips curl slightly upwards doesn’t look at all like the expected sneer.

 

“You look more dead than hardworking,” he says while still smiling, his fingers not only touching anymore but gently massaging that which isn’t his to even throw a glance at. He lingers there for far too long, eventually moving from shoulder to neck where Yixing’s skin isn’t covered by fabric. “To me, at least, that is.”

 

Yixing shudders, and silence follows.

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

“How’s your hand?”

 

The clock shows way later than it should, yet Yixing refuses to answer that question for as long as Sehun’s hand is still right there, on his neck. He is not angry, surprisingly—just a bit annoyed—but very, very tired when all comes around. He needs coffee, yet not, and solitude, yet company, but most of all a pause from everything—reality, hallucinations, and dreams alike. It doesn’t help him that his body reacts treacherously to someone else’s fingers massaging his neck which is still sore after that five-hour nap, especially not when that “someone” is Sehun.

 

“Xing?”

 

He peeks at the clock for the umpty-umpth time as though another reminder would make this situation any better,

 

“Bunny?”

 

and lets out a sigh, drifting into daydreams. How the hell did it turn past four o’clock, anyway?

 

Luhan is probably either asleep or waiting, in those crimson-coloured, fluffy socks sitting cross-legged on the floor with a cup of tea before the front door. The thought of him waiting next to their dreadfully ugly, mahogany bureau should bring enough shame to Yixing to have the latter rise at this very instance, but although the shame is right there and real, its effect is not the desired one. The thought of walking through that door at five is terrifying, at the least, and perhaps that’s just it—Yixing being too afraid to return, to again and again reveal his failed self to his comparatively successful boyfriend who apparently just managed to sell off a few paintings for relatively big money.

 

He lowers his head, unable to see the bottom of his own shame. Sehun is still standing there, even now, inviting a feeling of that time passes faster than it should.

 

“When are you going to wake up, goddamnit?”

 

The janitor leaves. The air conditioner stops with a beep. Yixing ogles his empty packet of prozac and groans.

 

He doesn’t have time to phrase anything snarky about how Sehun is probably as lonely as he is before the latter sighs and stops massaging, and neither does he register the dents in his skin caused by fingernails pressing into his suddenly sore neck. All he can feel when Sehun steps away is the tingling sensation left by hands that were rough when they seconds ago clutched his hair for no clear-cut reason, and the peculiar warmth settling in his belly because of fingers having skimmed across his cheek much more gently. He lets out a gasp as he remembers the lighter which still lies in pieces on the bottom of his pocket, and looks up at his coworker to search for any clues.

 

Sehun’s face reveals nothing.

 

“If you’re staying, have some coffee, at least,” he lip-reads rather than hears since his tinnitus leaves room for nothing but screeching. “Come, I cleaned the coffee machine at lunch,” Sehun continues with that sugary smile that is still on his lips, before walking away towards the floor’s only break room.

 

Yixing doesn’t understand.

 

He stares after Sehun while doing his best to ignore the sudden sense of guilt festering in his own gut, and comes to a conclusion that is unsatisfactory, if anything. It doesn’t contain any important information, what his mind deduces from the sight before him, but is a superficial thought as lewd as it is bizarre;

 

That ass looks good.

 

It is perkier than Luhan’s—not to mention his own—and overshadows even Baekhyun’s cute one with the way it seems to be staring back at Yixing who wonders briefly how it would look if not covered by those spotless slacks. Is there hair? Is it firm? Are there birthmarks, bruises, or perhaps even scars? It does look like an ass that would jiggle if slapped, but also like one that is the product of squats, and Yixing can’t help but entertain the thought that it would feel awfully smooth against his own calloused fingertips when–

 

He snaps his gaze away.

 

_Paint! Fuck! Paint in food! Raw meat! Luhan’s bureau!_

 

A ball-point pen is the nearest object as so he grabs it with his non-dominant hand, considering whether or not to stab his own thigh. He is shaking and perspiring and tries to picture his boyfriend, thoroughly disappointed in himself and his own inappropriate and equally self-destructive thoughts.

 

_Coffee! Noodles! Ice cream! Mulch!_

 

He really needs a cup of coffee—Sehun is right—and to go home and sleep and suck Luhan off in order to pay for his sins. He needs coffee, some dinner, to wash the drugs from his system— _Sehun is back_ —and to go home, get some sleep, make some dinner–

 

“Yixing?”

 

–get some sleep, fix the leakage, call Baekhyun, tie a noose, check his credit at the moral bank–

 

“Are you coming or not?”

 

He spins his chair to ask his desk neighbour for help, turning to one of the few, if not the only person he knows fully how to trust. Minseok, however, is deep asleep, and the moment at which that realisation hits Yixing is also the moment at which his palm begins to hurt once again. The pretty illusion he built for himself earlier has flown out the window, seeped through the cracks, its absence now allowing the pain to reappear.

 

He searches his desk for anything to seek refuge in while clutching the pen until the plastic breaks. Ink soaks his shivering hand then and mixes with the pus that starts oozing from his wound, penetrating it—the hole in his palm—whilst in a sluggish flow running down his wrist before dripping onto the carpeted floor. He ignores his phone when it buzzes in his pocket, for what suddenly needs isn’t Luhan’s nagging or Baekhyun calling him to cry over Chanyeol, but anything consumable that will help numb his senses. Be it coffee, painkillers, bug spray, or air freshener—anything that could replace his medication works as good as, if not better than any prescribed antipsychotic.

 

His coffee mug is empty, though, and there is nothing else there for him to ingest. All he sees around him is trash, those useless documents covered in doodles depicting people dying by the hand of Mr. Kim– fuck, did Sehun see the drawing of himself with his dick cut off and stuffed into his throat?

 

 _Stop!_ Why would the brat recognise himself from a poorly drawn picture made by some subpar office slave who once dropped out of art school for a law degree that turned out worthless, in the end? _He did call you an artist, though._ Yes, but–

 

“The coffee is ready.”

 

He freezes when he hears it, realising that he is sweating profusely and that his daily cocktails of alcohol and drugs have finally started to take a toll on his health. Cursing the fact that he has devoured all his prozac and that his travel bottles are emptied of vodka, he turns around slowly to face Sehun, his reluctance nearly tangible at this point. _There is nothing to be afraid of, just the worms in the coffee,_ is what he tells himself, sceptical, when Sehun gazes back, whilst still seeking comfort in the soft little snores spilt by Minseok who is by now the only other person still there.

 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles then—lying, of course—only for his limbs to betray him when they start moving by their own. Rising from his chair as though his body won’t obey his commands—not that he made any, but that is a secret—he walks towards the source of the scent of freshly brewed coffee that is already poured into two identical ceramic mugs.

 

Sehun keeps observing him from the other side of the office while he walks, with an indecipherable expression waiting for him to move closer just like Luhan is waiting for him back at home. Pausing his steps midway through the room, Yixing considers each and every one of his options only to realise bitterly that they’re all equally objectionable.

 

That coffee smells nice, though, rich and distinct, piercing through the foggy veil of layered insanity that keeps veering between torpor and hysteria. It draws him closer with each new inhale and he wonders on a sudden what kind of twisted reasoning used to lie behind his previous hesitation, the made up reasons causing him to loathe Sehun and avoid him like the plague or his own suppressed memories.

 

“It’s half past two,” is what ultimately settles it when it is whispered softly, almost as if by Luhan. “You’re not gonna make it home alive if you don’t have something to drink before you leave,” is so enticingly pronounced by Sehun who lures him in, tricking him into dragging his feet towards the break room with anything else than reluctance in his steps.

 

 _It’s half past two and my hand really hurts_.

 

Sehun is right. A cup of coffee would do him good.

 

 

 

 

Yixing doesn’t know why he is pressed against the printer. Damn, he doesn’t even know why there’s a printer in the break room.

 

Perhaps it is not even there, he thinks as his slacks get pulled down and his shirt rips open. Perhaps it is just the magic of medication or the lack of sleep that unfortunately comes with this shitty line of work. Maybe he is still in his bedroom back home, snuggled up against Luhan’s chest whilst savouring their shared warmth before the alarm goes off. Perhaps the gasps spilling from his own lips are simply the by-product of too many sleeping pills, if perchance his boyfriend has forgotten to hide them again, that is.

 

That has to be it, he tells himself while still acknowledging the pain, with a stern inner voice which is not at all matching his pathetic little whimpers that are echoing through the office. He is still in bed and it is still only morning, and he will finally be able to orgasm without a problem after months of not being good enough to succeed. His boyfriend must feel so proud of him now, so wonderfully glad for his silly little impotent bunny who is currently stuffed with his cock and whining and not at all engaging in some clandestine business.

 

Yixing keeps imagining the scenario which has for months on end been coveted by himself during those many nights of humiliating tears. He keeps picturing just what _should_ be happening until he can no longer hold on to those ridiculous illusions. They are, after all, but wishful thinking rendered by his own ironic sense of faithfulness.

 

The truth is, beyond doubt, that he can feel that the mouth on his neck isn’t Luhan’s, and if there is anything he knows by heart and by soul, it is that Luhan has never forced his legs open.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who is sehun? who is minseok? who is luhan? who is baekhyun?


End file.
